The Education of a Lady
by thewanderers'wanderingdaughter
Summary: Fourth and final (for real this time) part in the His Little Bird series. The story of survival, betrayal, and tragedy. A monster took everything from her. Now she's expected to be a willing participant in the world he's built for them. They want her to become one of them. She only wants vengeance. Warnings for violence, rape, language and gore apply.
1. The Devil's Bride

A traveler making his way down a lonesome and richly forested road was on the search for a refuge. He had been walking since dawn, hoping that he could make good time and find a place to rest before dinner. He had started off this journey with a horse, and the first day's worth of travel was speedy and pleasant. However, at the end of the first day an unfortunate accident with a slippery cobblestone had rendered the poor beast unfit for more travel. It would take a long time for it to heal, if the injury allowed it, and he was reluctant to waste time. He counted himself lucky it had happened just as he'd come across a small village.

The man had sadly sold his horse to an innkeeper in exchange for a meal and a room for the night, and decided the next morning to continue the rest of the way on foot, preferring to keep the last of his funds than to spend it on a cab or another horse.

He had been homeschooled as a child, and once he had come of age he gone to work as a bricklayer in the Muggle world, following the near-feverish rate of constructions in large cities in North America. The pay was sufficient to keep his modest lifestyle, and he squirreled away enough money to keep his plans for the future open and not too miserable.

He was a man with taste for travel and movement, and so he had no problem walking the rest of the way if need be. The day was a fine one—a little chill in the air from the morning mist still hung heavy and sharp around him, but he wore thick layers that shielded him from their sting. The vegetation and trees around him was so lush that he made a conscious effort to fill his lungs up as best as he could with each breath to savor its freshness. There was a parcel with fresh cheese, meat, bread and fish that the innkeeper had wrapped for him and an old flask of wine tucked safely inside his pack. It would last him through the day but he was eager to see what else he might find to eat at the next village, which was not that far off, if the inkeeper's information was accurate.

He had been sorry to trade in his horse, having only just bought it some days before for his travels along the countryside. Were he not a Squib he would have been able to heal the poor animal and spare himself the ordeal—he'd instantly been faced with that thought as he'd stared at the creature's injured leg. Rather than give in to bitterness and indulge in a sour mood, however, the traveler was eager to make the most of the day. His youngest sister lived in the village he was headed to, and was preparing for her wedding. The gift he had bought her lay safe in a secret compartment in his pack that an old friend had added into it when he was still in school.

The bag was an old, shabby thing, but it had held up well since his school years, and the traveler prized it for the magical addition his neighbor had given it. It had saved him in the past, when he had been robbed and the clueless Muggle thieves could not detect the large pocket that could hold just about anything inside. It was his most precious possession.

The sun was up high and the birds sang loudly. As always, it had been pleasant at first, then annoying, then he had grown almost deaf to the sound, only realizing it when he realized the area had become absolutely silent. He looked around himself, and saw only the lane on his right that led into a denser forest.

It did not make him uneasy. The innkeeper had told him this would happen, after all. Speaking English through a thick French accent, he had told him that the road was haunted at this particular spot. Not like the ghosts that could be seen in old libraries or in Hogwarts itself, if the stories were true, but really haunted. There was a gateway to hell on this road, the innkeeper had insisted. He had seen a malicious spirit there himself the last time he had been there, but when pressed for the exact location, he refused to say.

The traveler saw nothing. The birds had gone silent, to be sure, but so far he felt nothing out of the ordinary. He looked around and there was nothing to suggest there was something other-worldly about the road, but remembering the deceptive appearance of his pack, he decided not to shrug it off entirely. There was always some sort of substance to these types of stories, no matter how small.

The innkeeper had also divulged in a local secret: the Devil's bride, they had come to call her.

Nobody knew her name. Nobody knew where she had come from. Simply one day she was there in their square, dressed in white, not talking to anybody but reading a book by a fountain. Nobody dared approach her. Everybody agreed that she was beautiful, and that just to look at her filled them with sorrow, though they could never tell why.

The traveler had argued that this was no reason for her to have any association with the Devil. She might just be a very private person, or even shy, and being beautiful was probably not something she could help. The innkeeper had smiled knowingly.

' _You weel know when you see,'_ he had said, nodding. _'Elle appartient au diable.'_

The traveler was skeptical, but prepared to believe. He had asked for more stories.

According to the innkeeper, the woman did not come to the village often. When she did, she always came alone. Except once, when she came with a man.

Nobody remembered what he looked like, except that he was beautiful too, and that his eyes, despite appearing to be, were not human. Some of the villagers who had dared to look him in the eye insisted that his mere stare had frozen them like statues, and they were only able to move again when he looked away.

They argued on whether his hair was blonde, brown or black, the shape of his nose. The feature everyone remembered most clearly was the eyes, and everything else seemed a blur. He was tall, they unanimously agreed, for the tallest villager, who was over six feet, had been able to look him clear in the face without stooping. The curious man did not speak to any of them but they overheard him speaking to the woman—his wife. His French was flawless, and though they feared him, it was an odd source of pride, to know that the Devil was a Frenchman.

When they both had appeared the word had spread quickly, and soon everybody knew. The village was small and its populace friendly but eager for gossip. It wasn't uncommon for most of its residents to gather in the late afternoon or early evening to sit around the square and eat or drink and trade their stories.

Nobody had dared to go outside, the day they had both visited. The residents watched from behind their curtains and peepholes as the pair walked around, never entering any businesses or restaurants. Those who were already outside kept a careful distance. The pair did not seem to mind. They seemed content to only walk, speaking to each other.

The woman never smiled. She seemed unhappy the whole time the man was there with her, and they saw that when he touched her she never seemed pleased by it. It led many of them to think that He had abducted her. Others protested that they were clearly married, and that if she wanted help all she had to do was call the local police and report him. She only had to run away and spare herself the misery, they pointed out. What was stopping her?

Perhaps they did not love each other, the traveler had suggested. The innkeeper shook his head and shrugged.

The Devil doted on his bride. Every time they saw her, she was dressed in fine clothing. The day they came and walked around, he never let go of her. They kissed and he stroked her and spoke into her ear. He picked flowers and put them in her hair. The woman whose flowers he had cut had been angry that he had not asked permission, and despite her fear had tried to open her door to yell at him. It would not open even though she had undone the lock. She tried her windows next, and though she had not touched the cord, all the blinds came down and would not part when she tried to open them. The next morning, when she woke, all her prized flowers were dead.

Nobody had seen them leave. They had turned a corner to advance into the next street, and when the person at the next house waited for them to pass his window, nothing came. One by one, the villagers poked their heads from their windows and asked their neighbor where they had gone, but no one had an answer. They had simply vanished.

The innkeeper seemed absolutely convinced of the story. The traveler was still doubtful.

There was a lane along the road, the innkeeper had informed him, that led to where the Devil and his bride lived. It was a long way from the road, surrounded by a thick forest that gave the feeling to those who dared enter it that their presence was unwelcome. In the center was a large white house. It appeared clean and well-kept, surrounded by a beautiful garden and a tall fence.

'Not everyone who veeseets comes back," the innkeeper had said. 'And when zey do, zey do not remember what zey saw."

When the traveler found it, he found that the innkeeper had lied to him.

It was not a house but a mansion. There was a gate and not a fence around it; it's sharp, detailed ironwork gleaming in the light like blood-wet arrow heads. A gravel path led to the front doors.

So the Devil was a wizard, and not only that, he must be wealthy to own such a home. The traveler was not surprised. He smiled, and continued toward the front gate.

Perhaps this stranger would be amused to hear the stories about himself the Muggles had made. The traveler was curious to see what he looked like. Did he really look like they said, or was that too an illusion, for the sake of keeping his own privacy?

And his wife—the traveler looked up when he reached the gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. The innkeeper had told him she was often seen by a window, staring out into the wood. Once, she had even been seen in the garden, sitting on a bench and speaking to another lady. The traveler wondered if he would be able to see her at all.

Movement caught his eye. The traveler looked up, and his face went pale.

There was a woman, at a window, her front pressed against the glass by a tall figure whom the traveler could not see clearly. It was clear they were in the middle of coitus. The woman was clothed, thankfully, her skirt lifted up from the back, but as the traveler looked on, stupefied, he could see the motion of the male figure as he pushed against her. One hand was caught in her hair, the other gripping her hip. The woman's expression was a mixture of pain and pleasure. Her eyes were shut, too preoccupied in her lover's attentions to notice the voyeur at her gate.

The traveler could not look away. He did try, and repeatedly failed. Something was forcing him to stare. Red mortification burned at his face, and at the same time, a shameful arousal stirred within him.

The male had hunched over the woman now, his head in her shoulder. The woman, the poor woman, writhed underneath him. Her palms pounded against the glass. Her mouth was open wide. When he pulled away the traveler could see blood had been drawn. It trailed down her neck and over her breast, staining her clothes. Her mouth moved—she seemed to be pleading with the man. Whatever it was she said, the traveler could not hear. Her lover's response was to reach around and hold her by the throat.

 _What kind of man is he?_ The traveler thought hysterically.

The man at the window looked up and caught the traveler's eye. The traveler's heart froze, and was inundated with terror. The man smiled, his teeth stained red. For a moment, the traveler was sure his eyes had turned red, too, but he wasn't standing close enough to tell. It was enough to send his heart racing again, thinking back to the days when Voldemort had been the biggest threat in his world. The man gave a last hard thrust to the woman, and keeping eye contact with the traveler, held her against him, turning her head to kiss her. She looked ready to fall over, but noticed her lover's gaze and, breaking the kiss, she followed it to meet the stare of the petrified traveler.

The traveler found little comfort in confirming the fact that she was as beautiful as the innkeeper had told him. The haunting look in her eyes as her cheeks burned red as his gave him the sickening realization that what he had just been forced to witness had not been entirely consensual.

He could still feel the hostile stare of the lover. The traveler was dripping with sweat though he stood perfectly still. A second later, he was released, and without wasting another moment he turned and ran.

It was a shame that he could not Apparate. It was a shame he did not have a broom. It was a shame he'd had to give away his horse. It was a shame he'd listened to the innkeeper at all.

The path had disappeared. The traveler looked around wildly for it, but it was gone.

 _Impossible._

He had been standing right at its end. He had run back in the way he was sure he'd come from, but it seemed he'd only succeeded in getting himself lost. He'd lost his pack somewhere along the way—he didn't care. Everything in him was screaming for him to get gone.

The forest was darker now. It was still silent but for his heavy breathing, the crash of each footfall over bramble and root. The hairs along his body prickled, and he knew something was after him.

There was no choice but to run. He went blindly in one direction.

When he could not run anymore he was forced to stop; doubling over, hands braced on his knees as he gasped for breath. The forest pressed in around him, choking him.

Footsteps, coming near. Shaking, the traveler looked around, preparing to run again. His stomach twisted.

"Who's there?" he called as bravely as he could. "Come out!"

His weak voice reverberated around him.

His mouth went slack in astonishment as the innkeeper stepped out from behind the thick trunk of a tree.

" _Monsieur?'_

"I knew you would come," the innkeeper said, smiling. He still wore the same greasy apron he'd been wearing when the traveler had left that morning. "Everyone always wants to see for themselves."

The traveler, drunk with fear, did not comprehend. He was too preoccupied in noticing that the innkeeper's French accent was missing.

"You followed me here, Monsieur?"

The innkeeper smiled again. It was the same, normal smile, but the traveler was not comforted by it.

"Did you see them?" he asked.

"Yes," the traveler said, blushing.

"What did you see?"

"He…he was hurting her." The innkeeper looked away in shame, that he had not done something to help.

"Are you glad you came?"

The traveler's insides twisted again. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Something is not right here, Sir. We should go."

The innkeeper did not move. He had not stopped smiling.

"Are you glad you saw what you came for?"

"No, no. I should have never come." The traveler began to walk again. "We've got to get out _now."_

"Then you'll think twice about coming onto my property, won't you?"

With his back to the innkeeper, the traveler froze. The innkeeper's voice had changed dramatically. It had turned from warm and friendly to cold and commanding.

Against his better judgement, he turned.

The innkeeper was gone, and in his place was the devil. He was tall. He was blond. His eyes were so light they were almost clear. He wore no smile.

"M-Monsieur?"

"I am not some lowly innkeeper," the man said impatiently. "I am the owner of this property and the "Devil" of these woods, as you've come to call me."

The traveler could only shrink back as the devil approached.

"Every last one of you hears a ghost story and you come running," he said, assessing the cornered traveler from his toes to his head. "I knew you simpletons had little else to do but gossip, but ever since one of you fools started that nonsense I've had a number of strangers showing up here at my property just to take a peek at what they shouldn't."

"Forgive me," the traveler said, resisting the urge to bow, to sink to his knees. Something about the devil suggested he was not an ordinary wizard who liked to play cruel tricks on strangers. He had an air of nobility and power around him, and it made the traveler want to cower or hide himself away where he might never see those eyes again. "Forgive me. I didn't mean any trouble."

The devil laughed. "Spare us the lies and I might be more lenient with you. You heard about a mysterious, beautiful woman and you couldn't help yourself."

The traveler hung his head. "Y-Yes, my Lord." He'd taken a guess with the title, but oddly, it felt right.

The devil's eyes gleamed in satisfaction. "You learn quickly. Well, you saw her, didn't you? Are you satisfied?"

The traveler did not know how to answer. The devil seemed to be able to guess his answer.

"You arrived faster than I expected. The others usually took longer. You were not meant to see me fucking my wife. I ought to take your eyes for your insolence."

The traveler sank to his knees, a wordless cry emitting from his mouth. The devil looked down on him without emotion.

"I've killed all the others who came before you, you know," he said matter-of-factly. "There have been _several."_

"My Lord…"

"After the first ten I killed the innkeeper because he was the one who'd started the stories," the devil said, smiling as if recalling a fond memory. "He made good money off the tourists who came through in search of a local haunt. Another bought his business and it started up again. Intruders would show up outside my gate, demanding a spectacle. I gave it to them and killed them all."

He'd begun to circle around the traveler as he spoke. The traveler remained frozen on the ground, his eyes wide with horror.

"Of course, I could just have put up more wards to keep you all away. I might have done that from the beginning. The truth is, John," the traveler jolted in surprise at the devil's use of his name, "that I didn't want to."

"W-why, my Lord?" John croaked.

The devil stopped pacing. "Because I was bored."

"Oh, Gods…" John clasped his hands before him as if about to pray. "I didn't mean any trouble, my Lord, I swear, please forgive me…"

The devil ignored him.

"I made a deal with the innkeeper. I would donate to his business if he sent me one or two a month. Always randomly. I like to be surprised."

Remembering how the devil had shifted from the innkeeper to his own form, John dared to raise his head despite his feeling he was about to be sick. "You sent me here yourself. You told me the stories to get me to come here…my Lord."

The devil grinned. "I impersonate him from time to time when I want to make it more fun."

Having no resistance left, John hunched over and retched.

"I think I'll spare you," the devil said thoughtfully. "But I won't erase your memory. You'll have to live with what you saw as penance for your own curiosity. It was tame, by my standards, but I can feel your disgust."

John's eyes almost bulged from his head. "Thank you, my Lord. I'll never bother you again, my Lord, I swear." He tried to stand quickly, and was held down by the devil's hand on his shoulder.

"I require a gift for my generosity," he said, and the traveler went pale.

"A gift, my Lord? I have nothing to offer."

The devil released him. "I want nothing that you own. When you are at your sister's wedding, I want you to tell the story of the Devil and his bride to someone, and send them to me."

John clutched at his stomach. His head spun. "My Lord, _please,_ I can't."

"Shall I order you to send me your sister?" the devil asked, his eyes narrowing. "Or shall I just kill you now?"

Tears had begun to leak from his eyes. "No! I-I'll send you someone, my Lord. I'll…tell them the story."

The devil was unmoved by his pathetic display. "If you manage my task, you are welcome to return. I will have a gift to congratulate your sister on her marriage."

What could that be? A number of grisly possibilities ran through John's head, but he dared not refuse.

"You are very kind, my Lord."

The devil indicated that he should stand. "Only if you do as I say. I will give you three days to send me some sport. If you fail, I'll find you myself, and I'll bring you back here and dispose of you like I should have done the moment I saw you staring at my wife."

John flinched.

The devil clicked his fingers, and John reared backwards as something large and heavy fell beside him, as if it had been dropped from the sky. He rolled away from it, covering his head, fearing that more would follow, but after a tense five seconds nothing happened and he turned to look at it, heart pounding.

It was his pack.

He looked around. The devil had gone. He got onto his hands and knees, and retched onto the ground.

* * *

[X WEEKS LATER]

Hermione had been standing before the clear window staring out into the cloudless sky when a warm, gentle hand touched her shoulder and made her jump.

"I'm sorry," Pansy Parkinson said softly as Hermione turned to face her. "Did you want to be alone?"

Hermione smiled at her, the brooding air around her lifted by the sudden company. "No, no—I was only thinking."

"It's very early, I thought I'd have to wake you."

"I've always been an early riser," Hermione explained distantly. "But I'm glad you've come—I meant to find you earlier to see if you wanted to go for a walk."

Pansy smiled, but it had a strained feel to it. "I won't object, but it will have to be later."

"Why?" Hermione ran her hands through her hair, gathered it loosely into a knot at her neck. "Is Lucio awake?"

"He's come back."

Hermione's smile withered.

"I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Hermione said, busying herself with tightening the sash around her robe. "It's nothing you could prevent."

"No—it's just—you looked so peaceful all while he was away. I'm sorry I ruined it for you."

Hermione straightened. "It had to end, at one point or another." _He always comes back, no matter how hard I wish for the opposite._ "I confess I forgot it was today, but not this early."

She made for the door, but caught Pansy's look of having something else to say. She paused and gave her friend a curious look.

"What is it?"

"He wants you to put on the green dress," Pansy said. "He said you'd know which one. And that you'd know what else to do."

Hermione looked away. Pansy shifted uncomfortably.

"Shall I wait for you, or will you meet him alone?"

"Alone, please." The thought of having her alongside when she met her husband again was comforting, but Hermione tried to limit the amount of interactions between herself and Draco that Pansy saw. She could always sense Pansy's pity for her, and knew she could not help it. It never affected their friendship, or she tried to think that it didn't. At the very least she could hide parts of their terrible relationship, and let Draco think his old school friend was still loyal to him, though she sensed he only put up with her because he knew she so desperately needed company.

She went into the closet to change and emerged a moment later, undoing her hair. Better to take it down than leave it up, where it ran the danger of being torn out or painfully held by his overzealous hands. It had happened before, and Hermione wanted the transition of his arrival to happen as painlessly as possible.

 _Unlikely,_ she thought.

Hermione turned to face Pansy. The silk of her skirt swirled around her legs with the movement and she pushed it away distractedly, her other hand reaching up to rub at her temple.

"Was he alone when he arrived?"

"Yes, but I took the child to greet him." The formalities that she usually used were gone, and had been since Draco's departure at Hermione's insistence. Pansy was the only person Hermione felt close to, besides her son, and she couldn't stand to be addressed so formally by a friend.

Hermione hesitated before asking. "How does he look?"

"I can't say." Pansy said, not meeting her eye, and Hermione understood what that meant.

 _Like a ravenous beast._ Her legs felt weak.

"Wait outside the door, please," Hermione said, and Pansy left obediently.

Hermione took in a deep breath and smoothed her skirt, trying to distract herself.

She'd forgotten he was due back today. He'd caught her off guard. She'd held the foolish hope that he would be delayed, knowing that would never happen. It was like a sudden Auguamenti over her head, like being dropped through a hole in the floor compared to the blissful two weeks of waking feeling unburdened without his presence. It'd been foolish to hope, as always, but she couldn't help herself. At least she'd been granted thirteen days of blessed silence and solitude, which in these days was more than she could have asked for. In the times past, when he'd had to spend time away from the Manor, he'd Apparated into the Manor whenever he'd wanted her company, and as result she'd spent the whole duration of his supposed trip tense and hypervigilant for the unannounced moment he would appear and snatch her. But this time, it was different. He'd actually left her alone, and she was grateful, though resentment still pushed its way to the surface of her mind. Of course he knew she would be. Nothing he did came without purpose.

However, the temporary absence of worries and anger had allowed her to relax, and when Lucio awoke every morning they had set off in the car to a far off town to engage in activities normally denied to them when Draco was around. He had banned them from going to the closer villages and never said why, but she didn't care as long as she wasn't locked up inside that house.

She'd not allowed herself to dream, but still every day there was that faint whisper, that web of disbelief that settled over her, the peculiar feeling of near normality. Just a mother and her toddler son, buying fruit at an outdoor market. Browsing a bookshop, tasting sweets, talking to strangers; having actual, earnest, happy conversation, walking around a park at dusk, rather than apparating or taking portkey. It was addictive and unsettling, that feeling. It was like slipping into a favorite old sweater that she'd forgotten she owned. She'd cried the first time it'd happened.

Normalcy. She'd never realized how badly she'd craved it. Muggle things; elements from her past life. Freedom. It filled a void inside her, though each fix was only temporary and left her craving more.

Strangely, it also alleviated the ache caused by not being able to use her magic. If felt like a hand in between her ribs, as if Draco had reached inside her and grabbed her magic in a fierce grip, and every time she tried to use it the fist tightened, threatening to crush it into nothing.

She had given up asking for it back. It yielded the same result as fighting, demanding, asking, begging, for her freedom.

Nothing.

But every day that he'd been gone she'd reveled in the feeling of peace, of his absence.

 _This is what life without Draco is like_ , it whispered to her. _Remember what it is to be free?_

She didn't. Or she couldn't bring herself to. It was too painful.

The sound of her son's laugh floated to her from the lower level. Draco would be with him now—perhaps he'd brought him a gift or was merely asking what they had been up to while he'd been away. Lucio, her little angel, would be hugging his father and prattling on with that childish lisp of his of how they had gone wading in the stream behind their house, or how they had seen a small fair down in the village.

She hadn't even seen him yet and already she was tensing up, turning back to stone—a Medusa of sorts. Hermione's heart pounded-he had been away almost a fortnight. Draco rarely spent so much time away unless he had no choice, and when he came back he usually had a starved demeanor about him, like he had gone and been separated from her for years rather than days. She was well used to his sexual appetite but still didn't like it-the idea of him pulling her into any one of the rooms for a hard fuck made her heart sink and she wished there was a way to delay it, if not stop it altogether.

 _Always with the hope,_ she thought, angry with herself. _Years of it. And I'm still here. I'm still his._

There was a tap on the door. "My Lady, He grows restless. He is impatient to see you."

There was the shift back to formality. Hermione rolled her head back and around in a last attempt to relax but was unsuccessful. Already she could picture Draco waiting in the sitting room for her, eyes cold and turbulent, hands tensed and ready to touch her.

 _Restless indeed._

Shaking her head to clear out the image, Hermione made her way to the door. _I had better hurry._

Time had ingrained Draco's most important rule into her mind, hard as she might try to fight it: _Never deny him._ It had taken time and almost endless fighting, but here she was at last, the obedient wife, groomed to her husband's tastes. Or so he liked to think.

Still, that thought left an extremely bitter taste on her tongue, but now was not the time to brood. Hermione exhaled slowly, gathered herself into a less nervous bundle, and exited the room. Pansy escorted her down to the first floor where Draco and Lucio were both gathered in the hall. Her keen eyes took in everything and at once felt uneasy. She had expected smiling faces but was met with stony silence and Draco's consuming gaze. A cold wash of fear spread down her body. Lucio's arm was in Draco's grasp, his poor tear-stained face peeped out at her from behind her husband's legs. Pansy stood behind them, her hands clasped at her front.

"What is it?" she asked immediately, approaching faster. Draco's eyes were narrowed and accusatory but Hermione missed the look entirely—she had eyes only for her son.

"Leave us, Pansy," Draco said, and once his servant was gone he released Lucio and strode up to her.

"I'm sorry, Mummy," Lucio's small voice reached her before Draco's hiss did.

"What were you _thinking_?"

Hermione went to Lucio first and crouched down to wipe at his eyes, then turned to Draco. "About what, Draco? What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

"I told him we went to town," Lucio said feebly. Hermione frowned, and cupped his cheek in her palm.

"It's alright, my darling," Hermione told him, and then to Draco, demanded, "What's wrong with that, Draco? You said it was alright."

"Not anymore. You put yourselves in danger."

"Don't be ridiculous, nothing happened," she insisted.

"After what happened last week something might have," he said angrily, placing his hands on his hips. Hermione was perplexed—what was he talking about? She had heard of nothing. Lucio sniffled and she turned back to him.

"There's no need to cry, my love," she told Lucio. Wiping at his eyes, he nodded. Hermione turned to Draco. "We need to talk," she said, "but first you should apologize to your son for frightening him."

Draco hesitated, but walked forward, a rueful smile on his lips. Lucio saw it and relaxed easily, but only Hermione could see the steel that remained in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to scare you or Mummy."

"It's alright, Father," Lucio said, and caught Draco's offered hand in his own chubby little fingers. The fear had fled immediately and he relaxed, smiling once again.

"I brought you a gift," Draco said, "it's by the door. Go on and play with it, but for now Mummy and I need to talk in private. We'll join you soon, okay?"

"Yes, Father!" Lucio gave his father a quick hug and then sprinted off to find his present, and Hermione and Draco were alone.

Hermione watched her son leave with a sadness that smarted at her eyes-the love her little boy gave Draco was more than he deserved. Not at all for the first time she wondered if he would still love his father if he knew just how their family had come to be, right from the very beginning, but all those thoughts were immediately silenced when she felt her husband's arms wrap around her from behind. He pulled her to him roughly, turned her around, spread his palms on the sides of her head and brought her so close their noses touched.

She was already breathless, her lungs hardly daring to draw in more breath under his gaze. He nuzzled his nose against her, his eyes never leaving hers, hands secure on her head, holding her still. Hermione felt her bravery falter—no matter how many times she had been through this, the fear would always be present. His eyes held a power that always threatened to consume what was left of herself.

There was the familiar pressure of his lips crushing against hers-almost savage in their beginning but as he satisfied his craving he gentled and gave soft, lingering kisses as he waited for her to relax in his arms but she remained impassive, and his kisses regained their urgency. Hermione closed her eyes, wound her arms through his and pressed her palms flat against his back. Inside, her heart pounded, dreading what was to come. Hermione frowned as he moaned into her mouth, let him plunder her lips and felt his shudder, the stirrings of pleasure in his trousers.

Feeling absolutely hollow, she let her fingers run through his hair and lightly massaged his scalp, and some of the tension drained from his shoulders. When he kissed and nipped at her neck it was her turn to shiver though she only felt the pain and no pleasure. His tongue swept across her bottom lip, his hands controlled her movements; one at the back of her head and the other on her side, holding her to him. Hermione pulled her arms away from him and made to end the kiss but his arm caught her hand and led it down his front to feel his erection and stroke it over his trousers. He was staring at her so intently, eyes clouded with lust, she couldn't meet his gaze. His cock was lengthening in her hand, growing stiffer, and he let his head fall back; his breathing became labored. His hand tightened around hers and slowed her strokes; she felt his heat through his trousers and wished he would let her go.

This was their strange and complex dance—one he had doomed them to for the rest of their lives. He gave and took from her and she was expected to react, and if she felt like it she gave, too. It was a rare occurrence but the mere fact that it _did_ happen was enough to cement his hold on her. Largely unspoken, but one of his rules nonetheless: _always be responsive_.

Sadly, Hermione didn't always have to act for this. He studied her passionately, like she was an exam he was quite determined to pass, and had unfortunately done well in the process. Distancing herself from the assault was never easy—her mind was too full of hate, too aware of her surroundings and him, to be exact. On better days he left her alone while she was in the palace of her mind and made no move to disturb her there, but had no qualm over disturbing her body. On worse days he took her anyway and made damn sure she felt everything he did to her, and that she finished before he did, and because he was greedy, he made sure she came repeatedly. Not because he was a considerate bed partner, but because he knew she did not want it, at least not from him, and he enjoyed taking it from her. It was another way of reminding her just who she belonged to.

When his lips left hers Hermione didn't meet his eyes. She could sense his gaze on her and knew just how his eyes would look—hooded, frosted over with lust and framed by those long, dusty lashes. He wanted her to look at him and she refused to. The pride that lately had crept into them whenever he looked at her—what he'd turned her into—she couldn't stand to see.

Anger flickered inside her but she paid it no mind. For years now she'd been angry but what had come of it? Granted, she had every right to be angry, every right, but now was not the time to be angry. Draco was fierce in his lust, and when she denied him, he only grew worse.

"I missed you," he murmured, leaning into her, touching their foreheads together. Pillowy soft and just as warm, his lips brushed against hers. "I can't stand to be away from you."

Hermione tried to shut out his words. He was kissing her jaw, sucking on her neck. Her heart began to pound.

"We missed you too," she lied. _At least, one of us did._

The kiss turned harder. With his arms he jerked her closer, pulling her into him, one hand followed the curve of her ass and the other cupped the back of her head. Through the silken fabric his fingers pressed intimately into her and she took in a sharp breath. She was already wet. Hermione looked away, blushing angrily. A laugh rumbled in his chest, she felt his smile against her lips. Slowly, his fingers began to tease and stroke along her lips and Hermione's legs began to shake. She broke the kiss for air and his mouth traced along her neck. The feel of his hot mouth on her skin made her head swim—Hermione didn't like that.

Insistent, his lips pressed against hers and she turned, struggling to gain balance. When he noticed he broke the kiss and his pale eyes took her in, questioning at first and then serious. His hands were still on her. Hermione didn't smile. That was one requirement she'd been spared of, at least.

"Not here," she whispered, clutching at the lapels of his jacket. Bent backwards as he had her, she was afraid she might fall. Draco nuzzled at her neck, randomly pressing kisses into her flesh, leaving rosy marks where his teeth decided to make an appearance. Hermione's knees were buckling but he held her in place.

"Draco, not here," she repeated. If anyone walked in on them...

" _Yes_ , here," he spoke into her skin. The vibration of his voice against her tickled her and yet she felt it all the way down to where his fingers were still teasing at her, rubbing against her clit. A deep flush burned at her skin where he kissed her. "I haven't seen my wife in ages so I'm giving her a long, _warm_ greeting." As he said the word 'warm' he'd applied more pressure with his fingers and Hermione stifled a moan. He pressed harder and she bucked, biting at her lip.

"Let it out, sweetheart," he purred to her, holding her tighter. "I've got you."

"I'm going to fall, Draco," she said shakily. "Let me up."

The hand on her slit was gone—she nearly stumbled but Draco had anticipated the movement and walked forward swiftly until she was pressed between him and the wall. The too-quick movement made her dizzy,she hadn't noticed when he'd pushed her skirt out of the way until she felt the direct contact of his fingers massaging around her clit, the cold air prickling at her bare legs, one of which he'd hoisted up and around his hip.

"Draco, don't-" he silenced her with a kiss.

With the pads of his fingers he resumed stroking her slowly, fingers damp with her arousal. Still afraid of falling, Hermione's hands latched onto him by his lapels once more. Suddenly, his sharp teeth bit into her lower lip and she cried out as he increased pace and pressure, and she began to writhe. Little by little he dipped them inside her, drawing it out until a hoarse "Please!" clawed its way out of her throat; only then was he more than happy to oblige her, and his greedy fingers finally pushed inside her. Hermione couldn't help the exclamation that pushed its way out her mouth. Draco's other hand was busy at her hair, pulling gently so she tilted her head back. At her sound of pleasure he shuddered again, groaned, and curled his fingers inside her.

"If Lucio sees..." her own moan cut her off, she braced herself against the wall. He continued to thrust his fingers inside her, too slow, too teasing. She wanted more, and hated herself for it. Her husband could sense her inner struggle. To his credit, he didn't grin smugly but she knew he was pleased. He pulled his hand from her, and she let out a breath, leaned back against the wall. He kissed her again, his hands working to opening the front of his trousers.

The moment his cock was free he pressed her flat into the wall, hiked her skirt higher, ran his hands up her thighs to grip her hips and pushed inside her roughly, earning himself another sweet cry from her. They paused a moment, breathing hard, and he waited for her to adjust. Her body pulsing around him, holding him so sweetly within her, that beautiful heat, it was almost enough to undo him then. Enough to shatter him to pieces. Draco pulled back, thrust again and she let out a throaty moan which only grew louder as he set a hard pace, driving himself inside her as deeply as possible.

There was no regard to gentleness—his hands were set to possess, to love in the only way he cared to. He had been away for too long and would be denied no longer, especially when she proved so willing.

The emerald gown she wore had a deep neckline; a favorite of his since he'd first seen her in it. She'd been just showing in her pregnancy then, and her breasts had been swollen like her stomach and he'd been stunned by the way she looked in it. He made her wear it often, with nothing else underneath and her hair flowing like a wood nymph, his ring glittering on her hand. She detested him for it but obeyed, and he would relish the way her nipples pressed against the thin fabric, the way the skirt revealed and hid the curves of her hips and ass with any movement. While he'd been gone he'd spent every day thinking of her in that particular dress and now she was here, her sweet body crushed against his, cunt hot and slick around his cock, heart beating frantically against his chest, breasts dewy with sweat, it was all he could do not to tear it off her right then and there.

Her breasts were covered by two wide, long strips of the green silk, ending at her navel. He could see the hard tips of her nipples pushing into the fabric. On impulse his hand reached forward to tear the fabric away but at the last second he changed his mind and simply pushed aside the silk covering one breast, admired it for a moment and tasted her nipple with his tongue, circling it around the hard pink bud and then, trembling with the overwhelming desire to have her, enveloped it in his mouth and applied the softest pressure with his teeth at the same moment that he drove himself back inside her. His wife gave a soft cry and arched, shuddering. He pulled out almost entirely and pushed back in slowly, and repeated the action, teasing her by not pushing in all the way. Hermione drew him closer to her, her hands pressing urgently into his waist. Draco moaned and claimed her lips. Triumph roared through him, his free hand took the place of his mouth and teased at her reddened nipple. Her hands came up to hold his head closer to her breast.

"Draco, please..." she clenched around him and Draco groaned loudly, feeling himself tighten in response.

The way she looked now, he wanted to immortalize. Flushed and filled by his cock, vulnerable until they finished and she turned to stone again. Mesmerized, he reached up to cup her cheek.

The night before he had left he had made love to her angrily, knowing how she felt about him leaving. To not invoke his anger, she had denied it but he'd seen the truth in her eyes. Lost to his anger, he'd been much too rough and when he awoke the morning after she had not been in bed, and it wasn't until he was about to leave that he found her asleep in the garden, tucked deep into the bed of lavender, curled under the shade of an oak wood tree.

A mockery of a prince, he'd kissed her to life and she had woken at once, watching him warily. The question in his eyes presented itself to her and she'd answered.

"I didn't feel like staying inside."

By some strange grace she had let him carry her back inside, back to their bedroom, where that time he was more gentle, and she was able to achieve orgasm unlike the night before. He had made her accompany him to the door, like every other time, and without prompting she'd kissed him goodbye, but once he'd turned back outside the gate she'd already closed the doors.

All while he'd been away, and upon returning, he'd allowed himself to foolishly hope that she had missed him. He knew what she really felt, however.

"I dreamt of you every night, my sweet love, my beautiful wife," he crooned softly into her ear, punctuating every word with a hard thrust. She was wincing, wetness glistening just under her eyes, her jaw clenched. He could feel her body respond ravenously to it, angled his hips to get deeper inside. Her mouth had opened involuntarily, her eyes were screwed shut—denial or pleasure, or both? Draco pressed himself flush against her, so that he was buried inside without an inch to spare. Her head fell back, she panted loudly, here eyes less than half open, looking at him with exhaustion, resignation. Draco wrapped his hand around her throat and resumed thrusting, hard enough that she moved against the wall every time he pushed back inside.

She shut her eyes again.

"Not here," she pleaded hoarsely, one last time. Draco ignored her.

She let out a shattered cry which he silenced with his kiss, and kept thrusting until she fell limp against him, panting, just as he gripped her harder and came inside her, holding her to him until he was utterly spent. He could feel it running down her legs, sticking to her skirt. There was a faraway look in her eyes but he didn't mind; it took a moment for his vision to clear and his breathing to calm down.

When he was done Draco laughed gently and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her eyes were refocusing; she blinked once, twice. He pulled out from inside her, his cock glistening and hot, already aching for more. He still held her leg wrapped around him though she was mostly limp. She was still recovering, too tired to adjust her skirt. He looked down at the gift of his homecoming and felt a surge of satisfaction. He carefully set her leg down so she could stand and let her long skirt back down, trailing his hands along her hips as he stood back up and gave her a soft kiss.

Flushed and full of self-loathing, Hermione had come back to herself and recovered her breast. Her nipples were still over-sensitized from his attentions to them, and the sensation of the silk against them was distracting. Her legs still shook—she had to lean against him when he pulled away, and his smirk grew bigger but he gave her his arm.

"Can you walk?"

Hermione wanted to glare but decided against it. "Yes, I think so."

Draco cupped her face in his hands and gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I'd be happy to carry you."

"I'm fine," she snapped. "I had an orgasm, not a stroke."

Together they left the hall.

Draco's thumb absently stroked her ring as they went along. Hermione wondered if he was thanking it. After all, without it, he'd never have been able to capture her. The gemstones flashed and buzzed pleasantly under his touch and she looked away, frowning.

The damned thing. How many times had she envisioned herself blasting it to pieces? Throwing it into a vat of lava? Forcing it down Draco's throat?

From the moment it had been forced onto her finger she'd done nothing but hide it and try to take it off. He wore his proudly, like a medallion from the Wizengamot.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him.

"Only for you," he said, giving her a heated look.

"Why were you so upset about us going to town?" she asked, wanting to change the subject.

"Speaking of that—you won't be going there again anytime soon," he said.

"Why not?"

"There was an attempted attack on my estate in Italy," he replied. "And the one in France."

Hermione gave him a side glance. "Just how many do you have?"

He raised her hand to kiss its back. "Many and more, little bird. We'll be visiting them from time to time, soon as my duties allow."

 _More hiding places. Did these estates exist before or after I came into the picture?_

Hermione hesitated before asking "Who led the attacks?"

His voice was sharp. "Who do you think?"

Hermione's face went pale. _Neville_. He was still alive. How was he? Could he have built up a new resistance? Harry's eyes flashed back to her, blue and void of life. Suddenly all she wanted was to be alone.

"They're still looking for you." He laughed to himself. "The still haven't learned, have they?"

 _No_ , she thought dimly. _It's been years. They gave up on me. Now they only want you._ Tears pricked at her eyes and she looked away.

"It's not like they'll actually find us," she said bitterly. "You've made sure of that."

"For good reason. I don't need anyone else trying to take what's mine away," he said. "Your place is with me, not them. If they need another reason why I'll be happy to supply one."

Hermione resisted asking just what reason he would give them. She suspected, but was afraid of him confirming it.

"Well maybe if you didn't taunt them—"

"I'm not taking any risks, Hermione. Anything beyond this property is off limits until they are dealt with. They're not like to find us here but I don't want to leave that to chance, do you understand?"

"Yes," she said quietly. Resentfully.

"I mean it. I refuse to lose you again."

"I know." She couldn't help the edge in her tone.

"And," he added, "if you so much as think of taking our son and going off to look for them-"

"Stop!" she shouted, and the tears she had held back until that point began to fall. "Merlin, _enough_! I already said I wouldn't, what more do you want of me? Are you going to use him against me so I won't leave? Is that why you made me carry him in the first place? Just so you can have a bargaining tool?"

Draco's arms crushed her against him, she fought to pull away.

"I love you, and I love our son," he said. "He is the best of the both of us, and I couldn't have asked for a better child from you, Hermione. I promise you I will never harm him."

 _Liar._

She didn't want to believe it but she couldn't deny what her gut was telling her. She thought she knew him but there was so much he could be hiding from her at any given moment. She'd learned that over and over. Draco was not human. She had nothing to prove it other than memories. For all she knew he could have gone and made Horcruxes of his own, like his former Master. Hell, he'd even confessed he'd thought of turning her into one, a prospect that made her want to vomit whenever she dared dwell on it. He didn't shy away from horror, torture or any other atrocity. There was no telling what his limits were, at least where they didn't concern her. He'd told her himself he would stop at nothing to keep her to himself, and despite his love for her son, which she was still unsure as to its genuineness, she held the constant fear that one day his temper would slip or that he would sink to new levels of depravity and sociopathy. He'd killed her friends, her schoolmates, countless others. Once, to get her to obey him, he had told her of the women he had raped and killed before kidnapping her. He'd killed the most prominent wizard of their time. He had killed _Harry_.

What was another tally to that list? Nothing seemed to bother him. Would he hesitate to kill his own blood?

Then came the next fear. Lucio was a sweet boy, curious and eager for amusement. She saw nothing of Draco in him—she hoped this would continue as he grew older.

The thought of him developing into a younger version of Draco terrified her. Draco's influence was strong, and it was clear Lucio loved his father very much, as he didn't know the extent of the rot that lay beneath that polished exterior. Draco at least played along when Lucio was present, for which she was thankful. He would not hurt her or show his sadistic tendencies when their son was close by, and saved it for when they were alone. With Pansy's help, they were able to keep the illusion of a happy, loving couple, although sometimes Draco's intensity did bleed through, as it had earlier that day.

He waited for a response from her but she remained distrustful and silent. Draco cupped her face in his hands.

"You and I were both so lonely. I knew a child would fix that, and you're happier now aren't you?"

The lies came one after the other, all with ease. The promise in particular was not one. He had forced a child on her as a desperate attempt to keep her tied to him, knowing that she wouldn't dare harm herself for fear of the infant's well being. In truth, he hadn't expected he would have turned out to care so much for the boy but he did and now he was as protective of his son as he was of Hermione.

Over the past months he'd come to revere his wife as he hadn't before—for her strength, for creating such a perfect child. After everything she'd been put through, and by him no less—she was nothing short of a divine being in his eyes, and he was more than willing to pay worship.

The day of Lucio's birth he had stayed with her all those hours though the mediwitch said there was nothing to worry about. The circumstances of his own birth had yet to be forgotten and he worried that the newborn might be born with the same heart condition he'd had, and was there to ensure that Hermione not do something foolish to try to save her child. The words had been at the tip of his tongue as he'd held her hand even when she screamed at him to leave her alone, that all this was his fault, that she had not wanted this; he had seen the panicked look in the mediwitch's eyes and made sure to Obliviate her after.

 _We'll make another one,_ he had been prepared to say. _Let this one go._

There had been no need. Lucio had come, red and squalling, filling the room with his noise and Draco had watched anxiously as Hermione held the squirming bundle to her her breast, her face a contortion of grief and defeat. But those had only lasted a short moment.

He had seen the look of love on her face. The fierce look in her eyes as the babe had been taken away from her before she could protest and given to Draco so she could be healed and cleaned. Draco had taken advantage of that to give his son a proper name, as he'd suspected the one his wife had already chosen would not be to his liking.

She still had not forgiven him for that. She still had not forgiven him for many, many things.

Hermione had calmed down at last and pulled away.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he said for the second time that day. "I just wanted to make sure."

Hermione sighed. "I'm not going anywhere, Draco."

 _Not like I can, after all you've done._

"Come with me," Draco took her hand and led her to their bedroom.

Draco led her to the bed and pulled her onto it, settling down comfortably.

"What did you do in the village anyhow?"

Hermione let him curl around her. His hand rested on her hip. "I took Lucio around to look at the outdoor market. I bought some flowers and we ate at a little restaurant a vendor recommended to us."

"Was it good?" He brushed a piece of hair off her forehead.

"Yes."

"What else?"

Her throat felt a little sticky from the cry she'd had earlier. "I bought Lucio some new books and we raced to the cinema. Nothing extraordinary."

"You're teaching him about Muggle things?"

She gave him stern look. "It's how I was raised, Draco. It's important to me and he'll learn a lot from it."

"I didn't say it was a bad thing, Hermione. Maybe you could show me too sometime."

She paused for a moment, then remembered herself. "Perhaps."

He stood suddenly, undressed, and entered the bathroom. He left the door open as he entered the shower and began to run it.

"Where did that come from?" Hermione asked, sitting up. There was a fresh scar she didn't recognize that ran across his thigh.

"Someone cut me," was all he said. He was already clean but craved hot water and steam to help him relax. Before coming home from a hunt he made sure to wash all the blood and dirt off. Hermione knew that he hunted, but not what, or how. If she found out she would not be surprised, but it would be another reason to hate him, and she already had plenty.

Hermione frowned, unable to imagine a situation in which he had allowed someone to come close enough to physically harm him, much less with a knife.

"What was your mission about?" she asked, stepping into the bathroom. The scent of his shampoo filled the air.

"Just a meeting with someone else," he said distractedly. "An old acquaintance."

"Do I know them?" she asked suspiciously.

"Are you jealous?" came his teasing reply.

"Never," she said. "I only wondered if they were from Hogwarts."

"You'll meet them soon enough," Draco said in a tone that suggested he would say no more. Hermione sighed, and just before she could take one step to leave the room the glass door to the shower stall opened, and steam rushed out.

She could see his figure through the steam. He said nothing, but continued to wash himself. Hermione knew he would not ask.

She grit her teeth and began to undress.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 _'Elle apparatient au diable.'-'She belongs to the devil.'_

 **I was supposed to upload this yesterday but got caught up in something else. If you can, please leave a review and let me know what you think. I'm excited to finally share this. Thank all for reading and your support with my other stories. Updates will be slow, warning you now.**

 **I know that 'His' was meant to be the last chapter in the HLB series but the story's never left my mind, and I wanted to give it the ending it deserves.**

 **XO**

 **C**


	2. An Important Lesson

_**A/N:** So I realized recently that it's been about six years since I posted my first story here on FanFiction. At this point in time, HLB has 1k+ favorites and His Persephone is about to reach that mark, too. I never expected my stories to get this much traction and it still makes me surprised and happy to get daily notifications from people who are still reading it for the first time or for the tenth. Thank you all so much for reading and bearing with me all this time, for all your reviews and critiques and messages. If I'd never joined this site I don't think I'd ever have kept writing or pushed myself to grow as much as I have since 2011. I'm extremely proud of the work I've accomplished on here and I'm sincerely grateful for all your support. Thank you, and please enjoy this chapter. _

* * *

Rape warnings for this chapter.

* * *

 **Two.**

The dining room was silent. Draco sat at the head of the table, eating soup. Hermione hadn't touched her food at all. She sat still, her hands hidden underneath the table, worrying the fabric of her dress. Draco's legs extended under the table, spreading wide enough to cross over her legs. They could hear birds chirping far away, the open window letting in a weak breeze. Sunlight filtered in from the tall, wide windows, and all the silver on the table gleamed prettily. It was so strong it hurt her eyes. Hermione fought back an impatient sigh.

The sound of the door opening caught their attention. Draco and Hermione looked up from the table.

"My Lord." Pansy said, and bowed. "Your guest has arrived."

Draco wiped his mouth with his napkin and put down his spoon. "Good. Take him to my study."

Pansy bowed again, and left the dining room. Hermione and Draco stood from the table. He took her hand, kissing its back.

"You didn't eat anything," he said. He hadn't even looked at her plate.

"I'm sorry," she lied. "I wasn't hungry."

"I'll have them send you something later," he said, and a servant approached to help him into his cloak. "It will storm tonight, but I'm sure Lucio would benefit from a long walk today. He's much too hyperactive."

"He's only a child, Draco," she said, withdrawing her hand. "It's to be expected."

"Let him take his broom this time," he said. "I won't have you coddling him. He needs to toughen up."

"He doesn't need anything," she replied stiffly. "He's fine the way he is."

Draco gave her a stern look. "No son of ours will be weak. He must be taught as early as possible the right way to be."

"He is a _boy,_ " Hermione said, catching herself in time to keep from hissing at him. Still, their earlier peace had already fled. "Let him enjoy his childhood, Draco."

"I never said I'd take that from him," he said, more calmly. "I only want to make sure my son will be as strong as me." He reached up to cup her chin. "I'll not accept weakness in this family."

Hermione felt a sharp reply rise up, but bit it back down. If she argued now, he might change his mind about allowing them outside for the day, and she really needed a long walk.

"Yes, my Lord."

He smiled, and cupped her face in his hands. "I'll see you in a few hours. Pansy will accompany you. Don't go too far."

She nodded, and he kissed her lightly on the lips before exiting. She watched him leave, her hand resting lightly on the table, her fingertips grazing against her cutlery knife.

* * *

The day was bright and hot, but humid. Thick, dark clouds hovered in the horizon, drawing near. The gardens were fragrant, lush, plants hanging heavy with their flora. Hermione wiped at sweat running down the back of her neck. She'd arranged her hair all up so that none of it hung down—she could feel the effect of the humidity whenever she touched her hair. It had frizzed and turned into a tangled mess. She couldn't stop reaching up to touch it. Strange, but it was comforting, somehow.

Lucio had run ahead of them and into the cultivated land that stretched on for miles. They heard his shouts of laughter as he zoomed above them on his broomstick, occasionally flying past them with a wide grin on his face. Hermione had fought against the broomstick for a while, arguing that Lucio was too young to learn to fly, but Draco had given her an order. He'd learned to fly when he was young, too, and if that was true, then his ability had been passed down to Lucio. Draco had taught him the basics and safety tips, and then let him run loose. She had worried, because he still took a spill now and then, or went too quickly or too high, but he always seemed to remember to come lower, or slow down, and Pansy was able to soften all landings with her wand.

She remembered how fine a Quidditch player Draco had been at Hogwarts—not as good as Harry, to be sure—she couldn't remember a single match he'd ever won as Slytherin's Seeker, but perhaps Harry had just had more luck. Lucio was only four. Would Draco want to send him away to school? Was it better that way? He would be out of his father's influence. Draco had hinted once that Hogwarts was not an option for Lucio. Hermione remembered he had told her once that Lucius had wanted to send him to Durmstrang, and he would have gone gladly had Narcissa not intervened.

"If she hadn't," he'd said to her as he'd stroked her then still-pregnant belly, "I wouldn't have met you as early as I did."

He seemed convinced that no matter what route their lives had taken in any other universe, they still would have met.

"Even if I'd met you ten or twenty years later, no matter how long, I'd have made you mine," he had told her more than once.

She believed him.

Hermione pushed a damp, wilted lock of hair away from her forehead. She saw Pansy reaching for her wand.

"Don't," she said.

"But you're hot," Pansy insisted. "Let me at least do a Cooling charm."

"I don't mind it," Hermione said, staying her hand. "Really. It's always so cold in there."

Pansy put away her wand reluctantly. "He gets angry at me when he sees I'm not doing my job."

Lucio zoomed past them, waving. Hermione waved back, smiling.

"Before we go back inside, you can help me freshen up," she said. "He doesn't have to know."

That seemed to appease Pansy, and they walked on. The birds were louder here, where the trees were thickest. They stayed underneath them for shade. Lucio, meanwhile, had dipped down low to fly out above the lake.

"Do you want to race?" Hermione asked suddenly.

Pansy looked at her, dubious.

"Can you, in that dress?"

Hermione looked down. "It's light enough. I can move about just fine."

Pansy bit her lip and looked around, then shrugged. "Alright. To where?"

"That tree." Hermione pointed to it. "The one on the edge there, beside the pond."

"I hope the water's cold," Pansy said, grinning. She bounced on her heels. "When was the last time we ever raced?"

"I don't want to think about it," Hermione said half-jokingly. She took off her shoes, preferring to run barefoot. Giddiness took over her. The earth beneath her toes was warm, vibrant, blades of grass pricking and tickling her toes. There was a sudden breeze—it was cool against her throat.

"Mummy, what are you doing?" Lucio asked, approaching them with his broomstick in tow.

"We're going to race from here to that tree," she said. "Do you want to run, too?"

"Yes!"

"Alright. Get ready." She grabbed the excess fabric from her dress that might be tripped over and tied it into a knot at her thigh. "Ready?"

"Yes!" Lucio and Pansy echoed.

" _Go!_

Lucio zoomed ahead of them on his broom. Try as they might, they couldn't catch up.

"Unfair!" Hermione bellowed, laughing as she slipped on the grass. The knot on her skirt was becoming undone around her legs—the fabric was too slippery. She bunched it in her fists and launched herself forward to catch up to Pansy, who was slowing down.

When they met Lucio standing proudly by the marked tree, Hermione picked him up and hoisted him into the air. He shrieked with laughter.

"I beat you!" he said.

"Well," Pansy said, trying to catch breath, "we didn't say he couldn't fly."

"That's true," Hermione said. "You naughty little thing!" she kissed his cheek.

Once she had set him down he promptly began to take off his shoes and pull up the legs of his trousers. His little fingers fumbled with the fabric.

"Can I go into the water, Mummy?"

"Yes, darling." Hermione took his broom and leaned it against the lowest branch. "Don't get your clothing wet or your father will be upset."

They were all sweating profusely. Pansy was fanning the back of her neck.

"Merlin, it's so hot," she said miserably. "I wouldn't mind a dip, myself."

Hermione smiled. "Well, why not?"

"He'd get angry," Pansy said quietly, so that Lucio wouldn't hear. "We all look like a mess. Here, let me fix your hair, my Lady."

"None of that now," Hermione pleaded. "Please. I want to enjoy the heat." She lowered her voice. "I won't let him punish you."

Her promise didn't appease Pansy.

"But he'll punish _you_."

Hermione gathered up her skirt around her knees again. "I'm used to it. I'll live through it," she said, and walked over the hot grass straight into the surprisingly cold water.

Lucio was half-bent, humming to himself, swishing his hand through the water to watch the ripples. He held a wet, shiny rock in the other hand. Hermione sat on the edge and motioned for Pansy to follow suit, which she did, cautiously. The worry in her expression melted into bliss as her legs dipped into the cold, clear pond water.

Hermione sighed, thankful to be outside of the mansion. Each time they moved, Draco would add new things to their next house; a greenroom in one, a pool in the other, a music room, a play room for Lucio and one for them, the list went on. The locations varied, too. Icy landscapes or rolling green hills, goats and sheep bleating in the horizon.

He claimed each time that he had grown bored of the scenery, that he was too restless to live in one place permanently, but she knew better.

Someone was chasing them.

He never showed signs of worry, and they stayed in each new place from anywhere from a few months to a year—he claimed it was because he wanted to travel, but the most travelling they ever did was to the small villages or towns they ended up nearby, because one thing all these houses had in common was that they were very remote. Hidden, unmapped, unreachable, unless he wanted them to be. She remembered the shocked, hungry gaze of the stranger at the gate as Draco had fucked her against the window. That was the only place they ever went back to frequently.

She knew Draco liked to play tricks on the locals, but never inquired too deeply into it. Sometimes it was best, especially when there was nothing she could do about it. She had never suspected Draco to have a voyeur fetish, either, but looking back on certain comments he'd made in the past, it suddenly made sense.

Pansy had recognized her distant, troubled stare and engaged in conversation with Lucio, who was also familiar with it. Grateful, Hermione took Pansy's hand in hers and brought it into her lap. Her ring flashed on her finger in the sunlight. The sun bore down on them all. Hermione felt its burn on her skin, and waded deeper into the water, her feet burrowing into the cold slime at the bottom.

"My La-Hermione, please don't go too far," she heard Pansy call. She nodded. Lucio was still in the shallow depths. She watched him fashion a little paper boat out of a piece of paper Pansy summoned and set it on the water's surface, making waves with his arms to send it one way or another.

He looked so much like his father. It hurt to see, sometimes. All he had gotten from her was his curly hair.

Draco had been so, so proud, after the birth. He carried his newborn son with him all the time while she healed, and she had seen the satisfaction in his face every time. He'd treated her like a queen during the pregnancy and onwards since, acting as if their procreation had been consensual on her part, like she had wanted it all along. He had presented his son to his followers, proudly named him his heir, while Hermione was forced to watch silently, gripped with a fear so big it rendered her frozen as she imagined her son, grown and the spitting image of his father, standing there beside him in front of the congregation in their black and gold robes. One by one they had all lined up and knelt before them, the family, swearing fealty and service until their death. It was the most absurd, frightening thing she had ever seen.

As Lucio grew older, Draco expected more of him. He had employed tutors and taught him to play Quidditch to promote quick-thinking and flexibility, had him learn to play music on many instruments, ordered him to learn at least three languages.

Hermione had agreed to all these. Lucio was naturally inquisitive and clever, and she was eager to have him be as successful a student as she had been. Perhaps, she found herself hoping frequently, if he went off to school he would make friends and learn things about his father he was made ignorant to here, and would turn out a different sort of person than his father wanted him to be. For now, though, she would make damned sure that Lucio would not come to idolize his father as everyone else seemed to.

 _I'd rather die than see him turn out exactly like his father._

Draco had not hit her since the start of her pregnancy, but that was far from the end of the abuse. His lust had somehow spiked even more since, and none of his particular tastes had gone away yet, to her misfortune. Luckily, Pansy tended to Lucio whenever Draco had her, so they would not be disturbed. Lucio had seen his father annoyed, upset, sometimes angry, but he had never seen the extremes that Hermione was well used to behind closed doors. She made damned well sure that didn't happen.

She did it because she did not want to traumatize her son, or have it leave lasting effects on him, but sometimes she wondered if it was for the best to show him once and for all what his father really was. No matter what she did as a mother, it usually felt like she had made the wrong choice. She looked to the day that her son became and adult in fear and paranoia, wondering how the actions she took might contribute to however he turned out.

Later on she might have convinced herself that they had somehow gone through a time jump, a flashforward into the near future. It felt like only seconds had passed from when they had all waded into the water to when they heard Draco's voice cut through the sound of the moving water.

Hermione blinked, and saw Pansy grabbing Lucio's hand and pulling him out and away from the pond, his smile fading into confusion until his saw his father standing behind them.

"Hullo, father," she heard him call. "Come swim with us!"

"I'm afraid I can't, love, I need to talk to Mummy. Take him inside, Pansy," Draco said. "Draw him a bath and see that he eats his dinner and then straight to bed."

"Yes, my Lord." Pansy lowered her head in deference and hurried off, casting a worried glance at Hermione. Lucio waved at her, unaware.

Hermione realized with a start that she was half-submerged in the water, shivering. The water was colder now, the air still humid. The sky was growing dark, fat, heavy clouds looming wherever she looked.

Draco walked in right after her, grabbed her by the arm and all but dragged her out, his grip so severe that she almost yelped in pain.

Hermione's stomach sank. He must have thought…

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

"Draco, I wasn't-"

"Why do I bother keeping Pansy around if you don't let her do her damned job?" he asked her angrily. "Is she encouraging you to behave this way?"

"No," she said quickly. "It was too hot—I wasn't going to, Draco, I swear."

He stared hard at her, as if he didn't believe her, but settled down after a moment. "Good."

Thunder broke over them. Draco's grip transferred from her arm to her waist, and he steered her back towards the manor, just as it began to rain.

"I told you it would rain," he said reproachfully.

Hermione was having difficulty keeping up. Her wet skirt clung clumsily to her legs, making it a chore to reach down and adjust every other step she took.

"I know," she said. "It's just so hot; we needed to cool down."

He stopped, his hands falling along her form to grab at her hips gently, his cold fingers pressing intimately into the wet white fabric.

"You don't know how tempting you look," he murmured, his eyes molten as he dragged his eyes down her figure. His hands moved to grope at her ass, bringing her body against his. He kissed her damp neck. "Wet, wild, and beautiful."

"Who was your visitor?" she asked in hopes of distracting him. It didn't. Draco grabbed her arm again and led her quickly back into the manor, to his study.

"An old acquaintance," he said offhandedly. "You'll meet him someday soon."

"I should go check on Lucio," Hermione said, trying to pull away.

"No." He pushed her, front first, over his desk. Wrist cuffs appeared from nowhere around her wrists, securing them to the surface. Her front was pressed against the cold surface. His hands were on the back of her dress, tearing it in half along her spine, until it fell into a heap onto the floor and she was nude, shivering. He muttered something and her hair tie snapped apart; her hair in all its tangled glory fell down her back. She heard the clink of his belt buckle and the weight of his clothes falling onto the floor, and pressed her forehead against her forearms, legs trembling, waiting in bitter resignation as he grabbed her by the hips again and came closer.

He rubbed the head of his penis along her slit. Hermione bit her tongue as he pushed inside roughly and began to thrust without waiting for her to adjust. He let out a long, pleasured hiss through his teeth. His hand slid up her back to her neck, his fingers sliding into her hair to grip close to her scalp. He applied slight pressure, pulling just enough to tilt her head back. The desk, although solid and heavy, rattled a little with each push of his hips. A bottle of ink slid further towards the end of the table.

Hermione winced as the force of his thrusts slammed her body against the unforgiving wood of the desk. There would be bruises later. Just as he wanted.

Draco slowed suddenly, to her relief, loosening his hold on her hair. He wrapped one arm underneath her, his palm resting against her lower belly. He stroked her there softly.

"Would you bear me another son if I asked?" he said, bending over her to speak into her ear.

Hermione froze, her face went white.

He grinned and gave a hard thrust, hitting against her cervix. Tears of pain welled in her eyes and she bit her tongue again to keep from screaming. Her hands formed into fists and her arms strained against the cuffs. Her knees threatened to buckle. He did it again and she arched her back, gritting her teeth.

"Draco, _please!"_

He ignored her. _Thrust._

"Or would I have to force you again?"

Draco kissed her shoulder blade, pulled out, and rushed back in. This time, Hermione let out a loud, agonized cry.

"No," was all she could say. _Thrust._ He throbbed inside her. She wanted nothing more than to push him off. Tears slid down her cheeks.

He shuddered against her, clearly aroused by her pain, but he became less rough. The heat coming from him was making her perspire.

"You don't know how badly I want it," he said, and resumed thrusting until he spent himself inside her with a groan, pressed so closely against her she was afraid for a moment he might never come out. He stayed pressed into her for a moment to catch his breath. The heavy rush of his breath filled her ear.

He released her and she collapsed against the table, struggling to stand. The hits against her cervix always made it painful to walk after. He knew it, and still did it anyway.

 _When has he ever cared?_ she thought, her legs shaking. He was kissing her neck, pushing her hair aside to press his mouth to her shoulder. He licked the sweat from her skin. Hermione turned her head away, and the cuffs finally fell away. Feeling rushed into her hands; she flexed them slowly.

Draco helped her sit down after cleaning her off wandlessly. The blood vanished from her thighs but his semen remained. It began to trickle out of her vagina and her stomach turned. He had her on his lap, made her rest against his chest, her head cradled into his neck and shoulder. He stroked her hair slowly. He sat arrogantly, like a spoilt prince, slung back against the seat with his unoccupied arm thrown over its back, his legs spread, his softened cock nestled in the gap between her thighs and his. It was obscene. It made her seethe.

"I don't want another child," she said carefully.

Draco looked down at her curiously.

"Don't you want Lucio to have a brother?" he asked. "Or a sister?"

"I don't want to run the risk again of resenting or even hating my own children because I didn't agree to have them," she snapped. "One is enough, Draco. You took it from me without asking. If there will ever be a second, it will be _my_ choice, and my choice is no."

Draco smiled and pressed a hand to her lower belly. A yellow glow emanated from his hand, transferred to her body. Recognizing it as a contraceptive spell, Hermione relaxed.

"Thank you."

 _For_ _ **allowing**_ _me autonomy over my body._ Her skin crawled with hate.

"I love you when you're like this," he said. He kissed her forehead. "Sometimes I worry I stole too much of your fire. I'm glad to be wrong. All the same, I hope in the future you'll change your mind."

 _Never_ , she thought.

"There's a lot to be learned about raising a child before rushing to have another," she said coldly. "It isn't something to be done on a selfish _whim_."

His grip turned more painful. A warning.

"I don't regret it," Draco said, and her stomach coiled with hate. "And I think it's best for you to remember, _wife,_ that I don't need your consent. I could have left you tied to that desk and filled you with my cum day after day until you were with child, and no matter how much you argued or cursed me I'd still have done it. Would you rather have that, little bird?"

" _No!"_ she hissed, aghast.

He gave her a hard stare. "Then do not provoke me. Sometimes, you come extremely close."

Hermione's lip trembled.

"May I leave, my Lord?" she asked stiffly.

He helped her stand and kissed her. He did not require her to reciprocate this time, thankfully, so she stood there and didn't move until he stepped away.

"Pansy," he called. The door opened, and Pansy entered the room, her black robes sweeping over the floor.

"Yes, my Lord."

Draco made no move to hide his nudity. By now, it was something they were all used to. Hermione, however, still abhorred being nude in his presence, no matter how frequently it occurred. It made her feel more vulnerable than ever, and she was vulnerable enough here, even when clothed.

"Take Lady Hermione upstairs and heal her," Draco said. "She may need assistance with walking."

Pansy walked quickly to Hermione while Draco had his back turned to them, shrugging on his robe. She looked curiously at Hermione, who ignored her, fighting to keep her tears in check.

"Send my son to me, when you are done," Draco said, and Pansy bowed.

Walking was uncomfortable, but not as painful as it had been on occasions past, for which Hermione was grateful. When they had got past the door and it closed behind them she paused, realizing she had left the remnants of her dress behind.

They looked at each other. Usually, Pansy was the one who mended her clothes when Draco tore them, but neither of them wanted to go back inside.

Hermione attempted a smile, but it was weak.

"Can I borrow your robe?"

"Of course," Pansy said quickly, blushing, chastising herself for not having offered it sooner. She slipped it off immediately and handed it to Hermione, who accepted it with a quiet 'thank you'.

When Hermione had secured it around herself they resumed walking. By now, Hermione's tears had recessed and was only aware of the churning of her stomach as she thought about what Draco had told her.

"Do you know what he tells Lucio, when they're alone?" she asked Pansy suddenly.

"Usually he questions him about his studies," Pansy replied. "Other times I've heard him telling Lucio about his grandparents, but only in passing. Most of the time, I am too busy with other duties to listen."

What stories was he telling Lucio about Lucius and Narcissa? Ever since Lucio had found out whom his name bore semblance to he had been overly curious to find out more about his deceased grandfather. Hermione hadn't known Lucius well enough to oblige him, but why was Draco doing it in private? It had never been a secret to her that Lucius Malfoy was as corrupt and scheming as his son. Draco had told her stories of his childhood since his death, including all the bad ones, but she wondered now if he was omitting any of these from his son to paint a better picture of himself and his family.

 _I wouldn't put it past him._

It wouldn't make much sense, though. Draco had no shame. He always felt himself guilty of nothing, was embarrassed by the same. There was not much sense in hiding his family's unsavory past to anyone, much less his son. She didn't know how she felt about him telling these things to Lucio, either. If he wasn't careful, Lucio might grow up to idolize and try to emulate or even follow the same path as them.

She would have to talk to him, quickly, and explain it all.

They had reached the bedroom by now. Pansy led Hermione to the bed and let her sit, but not before Hermione took of the robe and handed it back, fearful of getting fluids on it.

Pansy took out her wand. "Where, my Lady?"

Hermione's midsection still hurt from where the desk had dug into her bones and flesh there, and the skin was already yellowing and bruising, but Draco always fucked her to leave marks, and expected them to remain there until they healed.

"The usual," she said instead, and Pansy bent low and administered a soothing and then a healing spell that alleviated the ache at once. Hermione felt her lower half wrapped in a warmth that usually was not provided by the healing spells, and realized Pansy had added that in extra.

"Thank you," she said.

"How do you feel?" Pansy asked softly. "Did he hit you?"

"No," Hermione said. "We only argued, but he made his point."

She stood, her skin raising from the cold, and grimaced as she felt more of Draco's semen trickle down her thighs. She half-regretted having given up the robe so soon, but at least with Pansy, there was no awkwardness around nudity. They had been forced to move past that very quickly, thanks to her husband.

"Do you need anything, before I go?" Pansy asked.

Hermione had half a mind to ask Pansy to eavesdrop on Lucio and Draco, but knew that Pansy would be uncomfortable doing it, and it would place her job at risk.

 _He would find out, quickly, too, and punish us for it._

"No," she said. "I'm going to take a bath, and then I'll be in the library. Please bring Lucio to me when he's done with Draco."

"Of course." Pansy inclined her head, as Hermione hated being bowed or curtseyed to. She left the room, and Hermione immediately went to wash off Draco's scent from her skin.

* * *

Pansy went directly to the nursery once she had left Hermione, her thoughts troubled.

When Draco had come into power three years ago he had sent word to her that he had a job proposition for her, and that it paid well. Pansy had been travelling abroad at the time of his sudden rise, and he had promised room and board, and that he could trust no one else with the job. She was to keep house, but most importantly, be a sort of lady-in-waiting to the actual Lady of the house. She accepted at once and returned home.

Draco had met her in his office. They had never been very good friends at Hogwarts, but had got on well enough. He had shown her her new living quarters and paid her upfront for the first three months, told her the rules of the manor and supplied her with her uniform. He had not pressured her to join his followers, but she did so anyway, donning their robes happily enough. Voldemort was one thing, Draco was another entirely, or so she'd thought. Ever since he had went into hiding after murdering Dumbledore, she had lost contact with him (in truth, they'd stopped speaking long before that) and then he was rumored to have been at the Battle of Hogwarts though hardly anyone had seen him, but he had made his presence known at the Final Battle after that, when he had killed Harry Potter.

The damage dealt to Hogwarts during those battles forced the school to remain closed for a year for rebuilding. When it opened again, not a single sixth year from the year before came back. They had all received their diplomas by owl. Pansy had fed hers to the fire.

By then everyone had known Hermione Granger was married to Draco Malfoy. Pansy herself had even forgotten about Granger, thinking that she'd run away for some silly reason, or that she'd died over break. She was gone from the daily life at Hogwarts for so long, after a point, others forgot about her, too. Just not her closest friends. They had struggled to deal with her disappearance for ages, and the Weasleys and Longbottom made sure it was quite the open secret that she was his, unwillingly. Pansy didn't really care much, at the time. She had found it hard to believe that Draco would have kidnapped Granger, of all people, but the Gryffindors appeared absolutely convinced, and when the headlines hit the papers months later, she still couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the two had just fallen in love in secret, and run off together. Neither the Slytherins nor the Gryffindors were happy about it—she supposed the Gryffindors had immediately jumped on the kidnapping accusation simply because they couldn't believe the truth. To be sure, in the pictures Granger always looked unhappy and stiff next to Draco, and stories of his cruelty and the origins of his obsession with her floated around, spread by old classmates who had learned of it too late—those who were still alive, anyhow. There were so many theories it was hard to know what was truth and what was not.

She was shocked to find it was all true. Most of it, at least.

Draco had given her a tour of the manor, introduced her to their new infant son proudly. She was to watch over him and feed and clean him whenever they were not able to do it. She was to meet visitors at the door and announce them to Draco, and to look after the needs of Hermione Granger.

She was to be respectful and polite at all times.

She was to obey every order without questioning or talking back.

Sbe was to use wandless magic as often as possible, so that she might master it and eventually have no use for her wand.

She was to never leave the area without his approval, even if she was with Lady Hermione.

She was to never allow Hermione to escape or harm herself. She must keep watch on her at all times.

She was to _never_ tell any outsider what happened inside the Manor, or she would risk extreme punishment.

He had made her take a Wizard's Vow at the end of the interview. By then she was having doubts, but he looked at her so expectantly with his hand out, she could do nothing but take it, and repeat his words.

"I do so hereby swear fealty, secrecy, and obedience in my servitude to Lord Malfoy," she had said after him, "until the day of my death."

He had been pleased. There was a meal waiting for her in the kitchen, he said, and the infant needed tending to. She would meet his wife later. He would call for her.

"How will I know when you call for me if I'm in another room?" she asked, and he smiled knowingly, and held his hand out again.

Uncertainly, she gave him hers. He tapped his wand to her wrist. A mark surfaced there—she held her breath, thinking with distaste of the hideous Dark Mark, but this was only the Malfoy crest, to her relief, and no bigger than her thumbnail. She had seen it before, when she had visited his family when they both had been children. A new addition had been made. A beautifully illustrated little blue finch was in one corner peering out at her with bright black eyes.

She bowed, and he left. She had taken her meal alone and tended carefully to the baby, and when he had fallen asleep she went to her room to unpack. There wasn't much to move around, so she decided to take a nap and wait for Draco's summon.

The call had come an hour later. The mark on her wrist _pinged_ suddenly, as if someone had rapped their fingers against it with enough pressure to know it was not an accident.

She reported to the Malfoy's bedroom at once, nervous, but confident in her new robes.

She heard his call for her to enter, and did, cautiously, unsure of what to expect.

She found Draco standing by the bed, dressing himself. He was completely nude and she averted her eyes, not knowing how common an occurrence this would become. Her eyes landed on the bed and stuck there in shock at finally meeting the Lady of the House.

She was nude, each limb affixed firmly to each of the four posts on the bed, bruised and bleeding, redder than she'd ever thought a human could turn; fighting back tears of humiliation as she forced herself to meet the eyes of the unexpected intruder. The skin that wasn't red with embarrassment was as pale as the white sheet underneath her. She had been gagged.

"My Lady," Pansy had whispered; her usual coolness in tone wrecked by her shock.

Pansy had paused, surprised, to see her former schoolmate like this after so long a time. Beautiful, captive, distraught, Hermione had seen that correlation in Pansy's eyes and the tears began to spill. She turned her head to hide her face with her restrained arm and shook with emotion.

Pansy had never seen anyone look so miserable. Longbottom's accusations against Draco resurfaced, and she felt her stomach drop. That was the exact moment she realized the truth.

 _I'm staring at the aftermath of a rape,_ she remembered thinking, and her stomach fell lower. She thought she might be ill.

Draco had watched her carefully.

"Heal her, and draw a bath," Draco had said from the doorway, and left. Hermione's features wavered as she tried to keep her face still. With her back turned, Pansy was able to see all the marks Draco had left on her body.

Pansy did her job without a word. Her hands shook but her patient, to her credit, did nothing more than blush. The tears had dried. Pansy had helped her dress—Hermione had been too sore to walk properly so she'd opted for a robe. Then she left, and Pansy was left to follow the rest of Draco's instructions.

 _It's stayed the same, more or less, for three years, now._

She didn't know why it still shocked her; Draco was not and had never been a saint. Everyone saw the way he loved her—he was scarily gentle with her, like one breath could scatter her like leaves in wind. But when she disobeyed, or displeased him, he was as cold to her as he was to everyone else, though he reserved her punishments for when they were alone. When he wasn't cold he was cruel, and that was oftener.

No one ever saw how cruel he could be to her, she whom he cherished so, his 'little bird', as he called her. But Pansy heard it almost every night, and by then, it was much too late to say that this was not what she had expected, that he had not told her in advance that she would have to watch after a woman that he had broken. She might at least have been allowed time to prepare herself the shock of seeing her the first time after he had used her, and she realized later, that it had been a test. That it could (and did) get worse.

If he had just wanted her as a dishscrubber she would have more happily accepted that, knowing the other option. Ideally, she'd never have taken the job and would have stayed abroad in Germany, studying ruins of ancient castles. Here, she wished that the housekeeping was her _only_ duty, but the House Elves took care of that mostly, so really all she had to do was announce guests, arrange accommodations for when he called a meeting or special occasion with his followers and the like. He paid her more than well enough for her duties, but she felt that considering the added emotional component, she ought to have demanded more. She was no stranger to what happened in private between a couple, and it was to be expected of the Dark Lord and his wife.

But not like this.

Draco was not shy. Nor did he balk at the thought of there being a witness to the crimes he committed against his wife. Hermione's screams coming from behind the door troubled no one, not even from the first night they had been heard. They were frequent, and varied in tone. Pansy was forced to endure hearing them most nights. She could hear everything Draco did to her, and she wondered why he never took the trouble to cast a sound-silencing spell around his room, so that she didn't have to hear it.

 _He likes it, that's why,_ she'd concluded. _He's a narcissist._

As if knowing her distress, he had forbidden her from consoling his wife after their relations. He would emerge from the darkened room, and Pansy would say nothing as he closed the door behind him and gave her a warning look. She had mentioned this to Hermione once, and Hermione was angry but said it was for the best.

"Pity can't help me," she'd said simply. "He does what he likes. I may not like it, but he's made sure I can't fight him. So I fight him in other ways."

Pansy had no doubt this was true, but it still didn't escape Pansy, the perverseness of it all, the heartbreak of having to hear her sobbing and cries of pain in such a terrible manner.

The screaming wasn't always negative. Sometimes it was the good kind that _should_ happen during sex. She was certain Hermione tried to keep those at a minimum but it was no secret Draco was greedy in his desires, and so he made sure to wrest them from her throat with pleasure. Still, those instances were few and far in between.

None of it ever seemed to bother Draco. He locked her in that room and hurt her, day after day, and Pansy could say nothing. She knew he'd chosen her for the position because he knew she'd do her job, and she did it well, but she hadn't anticipated the hatred and pity that would grow inside her. (Not only that, she was sure his jealousy prevented him from having another man this close to his wife.) Not wanting to put herself into the hands of Draco's wrath, Pansy concealed her feelings well, though they sometimes bled through. Whenever he summoned her into the room after the rape, to tend to the bedding and other things, it was a strike to her heart to find an utterly ravaged woman trying to care for her wounds without magic. Pansy was powerless to be apathetic towards her.

Every morning after, though, when Hermione left the bedroom she was still Lady Malfoy; her carefully blank face like carved marble, her posture hauntingly erect, ever aware of her own domination. Not a tear to be seen, even if there'd been the regular cries only minutes before. When Draco kissed her in front of everyone she took it, her cold facade melting into a blush—embarrassment? Anger? And everyone fell in love with her a little more.

 _Such strange phenomena,_ Pansy thought.

Upon the wake of Voldemort's death at the hands of Harry Potter, all the Death Eaters had been captured and the majority were sent to Azkaban to await trial, except for a handful, the most depraved, whom had been executed swiftly. They had been stunned over their loss to a schoolboy, at the loss of their Master.

Until a new one had come.

And when he demolished the infamous prison and freed them all, a new fire had been ignited, before the smoke from the last one had even cleared.

Draco's followers loved him like they would love a god. They were fervent, humbled in his presence, but they fell at his knees easily and never dared disobey him. He had them all in his fist.

Pansy couldn't remember such devotion for Voldemort. They had obeyed him, to be sure, but aside from Bellatrix, nobody had _loved_ him like they did Draco. It was something that gnawed at her thoughts often. Draco was not kindly, he was cold and arrogant, entirely conscious of the power he held over people. He was akin to his former Master in the way that they were both monsters. No shame nor guilt ever crossed their minds. They craved destruction and power, and stopped at nothing to achieve it. No act was too heinous for them.

The main difference was that Draco was human. Voldemort had turned himself into a beast; slick and cold, red-eyed, lacking only a forked tongue and fangs to complete the effect. Everyone hated to look at him, sometimes, even the most devoted. When he had got truly angry he was grotesque to look at. Pansy's grandmother had been one of his early followers, and before she had passed away she had told her stories of the early days of Voldemort, how handsome he had been then.

Pansy couldn't gauge for herself how true this was, as there were no existing photographs of Voldemort whatsoever, so she was forced to take her Nana at her word. Draco, however, was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. He was human, at least in appearance, and he was powerful. Was that not enough?

He had made himself a Lord. He had stolen himself a wife, gifted himself a child, seized his own power.

 _Everybody loves a self-made man,_ Pansy thought drily.

He could be kind, when he wanted to be. A few days after Lucio had been born he had summoned all his followers for a feast and presented them both proudly, one in each arm. Hermione had been resentful, fighting back tears of anger, but when Draco had bid her sit down with the babe in her arms in his seat before the congregation, like a Madonna with child, and everyone had rushed into a queue to press a kiss to her toes, as they normally did for Draco, and then gaze more closely at the infant and add him into their Vow of loyalty to Draco and Hermione.

Pansy had been standing by Hermione's side the entire time, knowing without looking at her directly, that Hermione hated every second of it. She had sat stiffly on Draco's throne with her hands holding tight to her baby, barely repressing a cringe whenever someone uttered a thoughtful blessing, that she might bear Draco many more children in the future.

Draco had made them stay for the feast, but it was not even halfway over when Hermione insisted she was tired, and the babe needed feeding. Draco, who had taken many cups of wine, had kissed and groped her in front of everyone while they looked on and cheered. Pansy had taken her upstairs to the bedroom where Hermione breastfed Lucio, and then fell asleep with him in her arms while Pansy stood guard at the door.

She had cried every night for a week since the birth.

Pansy had not expected that she would come to care for Hermione. In the beginning, she had tried to remain detached, to clean, heal, escort, and leave the room as quickly as possible.

But she had started to linger, and she had asked a few tentative questions. From there, they had somehow formed a bond—as much as a friendship could form within these confines and circumstances.

Draco had told her of her attempted suicides, and though there was less risk of her trying again because of Lucio, that she must still always remain vigilant, for Hermione's cleverness was something he could not suppress or break from her.

When she entered the nursery, she found little Lucio awake in bed, flipping through a book with an expression of such intense concentration on his face Pansy found herself shocked for a moment, that he looked like the mirror image of his mother when she had been in her first year at Hogwarts.

She knocked on the door frame and he looked up and smiled.

"Hullo," he said sweetly.

"Your Papa wants to see you, dear," she told him.

"And Mummy?"

"She's taking a nap."

Lucio gathered his book and together, they headed to Draco's study. Lucio held her hand all the way.

"Father says one day I won't need tutors anymore, and I'll go to a proper school somewhere," he said matter-of-factly. "He said his old school was a castle. Is that true?"

"You shouldn't doubt your Father," she said, "but yes, it's true. I went there, too. We were classmates."

Lucio's eyes went wide. "Was it a big castle?"

"Oh, yes," Pansy couldn't help the longing tone in her voice. "It was very big. I used to get lost in it and cry my first year there."

"Do you miss it?"

She squeezed his hand.

"What was my Father like? Did he get into lots of trouble?"

"Not very often," she said. "He was quiet, but protected his friends. He was among the top students, and so was Hermione."

"How did she and Father met? Were they best friends?" he asked, just as they came to the door.

Pansy struggled to find an answer.

"I think that's a question for your Father."

He nodded, and Pansy knocked on the door. Draco answered, and they walked in.

"Father, how did you and mummy meet?"

Draco looked away from his bookcase, where he'd been looking for a suitable book to read aloud from.

"So that's what you meant by wanting story time."

Lucio grinned and wiggled in his chair.

Draco went to sit back down at his desk.

"Your mother and I met at school. We were both eleven. Very young."

"That doesn't sound young," Lucio protested. Draco smiled wryly.

"We didn't like each other. I was very rude to her and she ignored me."

Lucio struggled to understand. Mummy and Father always appeared to love each other very much. "But why?"

"I was young," Draco said, shrugging a shoulder. "I was a little foolish. I believe she was inferior to me. This all changed years later."

"Did you become friends?" Lucio asked, frowning. "Did you tell her you were sorry?"

"We resolved our differences," Draco said vaguely. "Your mother is the strongest, smartest witch I'll ever know. She impressed me daily. She's also very beautiful. I knew I wanted her more than anything I'd ever wanted before." He paused. "I married her as soon as I could. I let nothing get in my way." He looked Lucio square in the eye. "This is important for you to learn. When you want something, you take it. Don't leave it up to chance. If I hadn't taken your mother she would have married someone else and you wouldn't be here."

Lucio was frowning, taking it all in with serious eyes. Something did not sit right with him about his father's words but he didn't know how to express it. He played with a loose thread in his sleeve.

"Don't fidget," his father said. "Look at me."

Lucio obeyed.

"You are a Malfoy," Draco said. "You will lack for nothing and hold more duty and privilege than others your age. I expect you to never disgrace our name, and if you do, make sure no one hears of it. I will help take care of any problems you have until you learn to take care of them yourself. You aren't like other boys your age. Your mother and I expect much from you." He smiled affectionately at his son. "But I know you won't disappoint us."

The only problems Lucio could think of were the sums his maths tutor, Bryson, made him do every other morning. Bryson had announced they would begin to cover subtraction soon. Was Father talking about helping him with his assignments?

"I won't, Father," Lucio said earnestly.

Draco looked at a moving photograph of Hermione he had, partially covered on his desk. In it, she was outside, framed by the sun, wearing that green gown he loved. She hadn't realized he'd had the camera out. He'd called her name and when she looked behind herself, caught him there waiting; her expression looping infinitely from curiosity into annoyance and suspicion. Several more similar photographs were hidden in his desk drawers. Most of them were of her nude. In each one, her face was red with discomfort and resentment, and she always turned away, but he didn't mind, because it always gave him full view of her perfect body.

"You must learn to take what you want," he said, and Lucio watched him studiously. "A Malfoy does not ask permission nor forgiveness. I took your mother because she is my equal and I wanted no one else to have her. I have made her mine and she knows it. She would rather have you be compassionate and kind. I want to you to be ruthless and opportunistic. I want you to become as great as I am, someday."

Father did have a lot of friends, Lucio had to admit. Lucio wanted to make him proud.

"Do you understand me, Lucio?" Draco asked, raising his brows. "I know you're young. But as you grow older, I'll teach you what you need to know."

"Will you teach me how to play Quidditch?" Lucio asked, perking up.

Draco grinned. "Of course. You'll be the top Seeker at whichever school you go to."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Sorry I haven't been clearer on this but Draco and Hermione are both 25 years old at this point. Draco kidnapped Hermione when they were both 18-19 and Hermione had Lucio when she was 21. I'm really bad at math so I'm probably getting this timeline all wrong.**


	3. Birthday Gifts

**Updates will continue to be slow! My main focus right now is Strange Mercy, and my writing schedule has slowed down recently. For all updates and other information, please feel free to peruse my new blog! You can find the link in my profile.**

 **Reviews are always welcome and encouraged!**

* * *

 **Three.**

Draco stretched and pulled the sheets from his body, relishing the cool air of the bedroom washing over him. Light streamed in from the half-covered windows, and it illuminated the witch's figure beside him most favorably. He admired it for a moment, before reaching out and hooking an arm around her waist and settling in closer to her until they were pressed together.

She slept on, oblivious. Draco brushed her hair from her face and pushed it away from her neck, trailing his lips over her soft, heated skin. She shifted, but didn't wake. Her breathing was still deep.

"Good morning," he murmured softly, and kissed her neck.

Her eyes opened at last. She sighed.

He was so fortunate, to have his wife. He couldn't imagine not being with her. Had he left her alone, she would have married Potter. And they would have their children and live their happy, sad little lives together. The thought filled him with contempt. Potter would have always been unhappy, searching for what he had already lost. Hermione would have been wasted with him. He couldn't let that happen. Here, she had everything she could ever want. A beautiful son, a powerful husband, wealth beyond what she was used to.

 _And I have her._

Nothing else mattered.

 _But the power does help._

He kissed her neck again, trailing them up to her cheek. Hermione stared at the wall.

"Good morning."

Draco ran his hands over her form, groping now and then playfully, but stopped abruptly, and rose from the bed to dress.

When he emerged from the shower she had sat up and dressed as well, slipping on the gown he had set out for her the night before. It was black and with a long skirt, plain enough that she wasn't immediately uncomfortable when putting it on, but the neckline still bared more than she would have liked to show.

He watched her as she pulled her hair into a knot at the back of her head, staring into the mirror, studiously ignoring him.

"No," he said. "Leave it down."

He watched as her jaw clenched ever so slightly, and after a pause, she let it all down again.

He came up behind her, half-dressed, holding his robes. Hermione turned, and helped him into them.

He kissed her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, my Lord."

He motioned for her to turn, and she did obediently, watching their reflections as he swept her hair back from her chest and shoulders and pulled it to the side.

"Do you know what day it is today?" he asked, staring at her through the mirror. His hands rested lightly on her shoulders.

She nodded. His fingers traced her clavicle slowly.

"I have a surprise for you," he said into her ear. She shivered.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding more wary than curious.

"You'll see."

She watched with growing distaste as he drew his finger across her neck slowly. In its wake, a thin chain of small, brilliant emeralds formed a choker around her neck. She felt it clasp snugly at the back of her neck and turned to face him.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"You know I don't like necklaces," she said carefully. Already, she was too aware of how close it fit around her neck, how the edges of the stones might dig into her flesh.

Draco kissed her forehead. "Indulge me, sweetheart."

Hermione wrapped her arms around him reluctantly. "Thank you. Happy birthday, Draco."

He smiled, and kissed her.

* * *

Lucio joined them for breakfast, cheerful as ever, babbling about a frog he had found outside his window that morning. He played with banging his spoon against his plate as he spoke, and Hermione listened patiently. Draco continued to eat, making sympathetic noises as his son occasionally engaged him with his story.

"Darling, don't bang your spoon like that," Hermione said, placing her hand on Lucio's arm. "It hurts my ears."

Lucio released the spoon and set it down by his water.

"Sorry, mummy."

"It's alright, my love. Now finish your fruit."

She could feel Draco's stare on her.

"I don't like grapefruit," Lucio said, frowning.

"It's good for you," Draco said, as he ate a piece of it from his own plate. "See? Mm."

Lucio giggled, but remained fast.

"I don't want to eat it, daddy."

Draco wiped his mouth with a napkin. "If you don't eat it, you can't play outside with your broom today."

Lucio stared glumly at the slices of grapefruit on his plate for a moment. Then he turned to Hermione.

"But I don't like how it tastes!"

Hermione could sense Draco's impatience rising, and hurried to resolve the situation.

"Look," she said, and took one of the slices. "I'll eat one, and you eat the other, okay? But that means later you'll have more vegetables on your plate."

Lucio, relieved to have evaded the detested grapefruit, at least, saw no problem with this.

"Okay," he said cheerfully, and ate the remaining slice, making a face at its taste. "Can I go outside now?"

"Not until you've said happy birthday to daddy," Hermione reminded him, and Lucio ran dutifully to his father and threw his arms around him.

"Happy birthday, daddy!" he said, giggling as Draco picked him up off his feet and threw him into the air.

Hermione forced herself to watch. How normal a family they looked on the surface. Sometimes, she found herself wishing it was all real, that it was better than living out the reality.

"Thank you, love," Draco said, grinning as he put him back down. "Pansy," he called. She appeared at the door almost instantly. "He'll be playing outside. Watch over him, and make sure he puts on a jumper when it gets colder."

"Yes, my Lord." Pansy smiled at Lucio and held out her hand. Lucio ran over to her, took it, and they left the room.

Draco waved a hand at the table, and its contents vanished. Hermione was getting up too, about to inquire whether he had any business to attend to that morning, to gauge whether she would be able to spend her day alone, which she very much wanted.

Draco approached her, and held out his arm.

"Are you ready for your surprise?"

Hermione frowned. Her hand touched her new choker. "I thought this was it."

Draco took her around the waist. "That's only part of it, sweetheart. Come with me."

Draco's arm around her waist was restrictive, not allowing for much movement other than walking. Hermione wanted to pull it away and leave, as she was sure he wouldn't like what he was going to show her, judging by the choker.

They came up to the library, and he led her inside.

Hermione's eyes caught on a thin, brown-haired man standing by the largest windows. He was not one of Draco's followers, she could tell by his lack of gilded robes. There was a rather large suitcase standing on the floor beside him. He bowed as she and Draco neared.

"My Lord," he said.

Draco acknowledged the bow with a nod of his head.

"Falkner. I'm glad you could make it so early."

The man was tall, but not as tall as Draco. He had a pleasant, square-shaped face and tired, restless brown eyes. His hair was short and a shadow of a beard ran long his jaw. Hermione could sense his uncertainty.

He frequently looked towards Hermione, even as he addressed Draco. Hermione saw he wore plain clothes underneath his robe, and appeared exceedingly nervous.

"I am honored to be of service to you, my Lord—most honored."

Draco presented Hermione to him.

"This is Hermione, my wife."

Still, that smugness in his words. Would it ever go away? Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.

Hermione held out her hand, as Draco had taught her to do, fighting the self-loathing that filled her upon acting. Falkner bent low, took it, and kissed it.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lady."

"May I ask how you know my husband?" Hermione asked.

Falkner began to answer, but Draco cut him off.

"A friend of a friend," he said dismissively. "We met about a month ago, out hunting."

Falkner had gone pale, but nodded. Hermione watched it all keenly, knowing Draco was lying.

"You go hunting so often," she said to Draco with a small smile. "One day, I'll go with you."

"You saw the scar I got," he reminded her. "I won't let you put yourself in harm's way." He turned to Falkner and gestured towards his suitcase. "Set up your things. Let me know if there's anything you need."

Falkner gave a hurried bow. "Of course, of course." He went to the suitcase and opened it, hunched low so that Hermione couldn't see what lay inside.

"What's happening?" she asked Draco.

He cupped her face and kissed her. "He's going to paint your likeness for me. I've commissioned him, you see."

"Oh." She didn't like the thought of that at all.

"There'll be one of each of us individually," he continued. "You, Lucio, and I." He brushed her lower lip with his thumb. "One of us, together. And one of all three of us."

Hermione was staring at Falkner, still rummaging in his suitcase. "I hope you're paying him well."

Draco grinned. "He certainly won't starve."

Falkner had stood and assembled a tall wooden easel by the window, in front and to the side of Hermione's favorite chaise.

Draco had gone over to look at his paints. He was frowning.

"This is what you've been using?" he asked.

Falkner had brought out a stretched canvas from within a satchel Hermione had not seen, and restored to its regular size. It was almost as tall as him. That explained why the easel looked much bulkier compared to ones she'd seen in the past.

"Yes, my Lord. It is the best I can afford, but I'm confident I can deliver a beautiful portrait to your liking."

Draco raised a brow. "Really."

"I have won awards in the past for my work, my Lord," he said, settling the heavy oversized canvas onto the easel. "And those works were made with these very same paints."

"I have no doubt of your skill, as I've seen it myself," Draco replied. "But I want nothing but the best for these." He snapped his fingers, and their only House Elf, Toffee, appeared. She wore a plain pillowcase that was old, but well cared for.

Toffee bowed low. "Yes, Master?"

"Go to Diagon Alley, and find an art supply shop," Draco said. "Get an associate to help you pick out the best quality paint. Money is no issue. Have them send me a bill." He looked to Falkner, who appeared utterly taken aback. "Did you need anything else?"

"My Lord, please don't trouble yourself—"

Draco sighed and took a long look at his suitcase. "Bring brushes, too. All the usual materials required for painting with oils. I want only the best. Bring them back as quickly as possible."

"Right away, Master," Toffee said, and disappeared with a CRACK.

"That gives us about twenty minutes," Draco said, and held up a hand towards Falkner, who was about to speak. "If you can deliver me faithful portraits I'll consider it an investment. I'm sure other members of my…court would be eager to hire you on, once I've finished with you."

Falkner bowed again. "You're most generous, my Lord. Thank you."

"Do you have any samples of your work?" Hermione asked. She couldn't stop looking at that huge blank canvas. Why such a large scale? It would look so imposing when on a wall.

 _That's probably what Draco's after._

Falkner shook his head. "I'm afraid not, my Lady, but tomorrow I'll remember to bring some."

Draco, too, was staring at the canvas.

"Your friend John never mentioned you are a painter," he said. "I'll confess I was impressed with your work. I've always appreciated art but don't know much beyond looking at it."

"John is more of an acquaintance, my Lord. We met at a wedding." Falkner dropped a tube of paint and hurried to pick it back up.

"Did you study art in school?" Hermione asked.

Falkner was holding some of his old brushes in his hand.

"Yes, my Lady. Beauxbatons has many classes dedicated to teaching art and I took as many as I could, to the point that my grades in others suffered. I took classes in the muggle world, as well, every summer."

There was a knock at the door of the library, and they turned to see Pansy enter.

"My Lord, Nott is here to see you."

"Take him to the sitting room," Draco said. "I'll see him in a minute."

Pansy nodded, and disappeared.

Draco turned back to them. "Continue setting up," he ordered Falkner. "Hermione, sit at the chair and he'll direct you to an appropriate pose for the painting. I'll be back."

When the door had closed behind him, Hermione remained standing, but approached the now designated painting area. Falkner continued to hold tightly to his brushes.

"The carpet here is so fine," Falkner said, almost timidly, "I wouldn't want to ruin it with paint drippings, my Lady. Perhaps we could move to an area with no carpet?"

"I wouldn't care at all if they got ruined," Hermione admitted. "But you're right. Pansy," she called.

Pansy appeared behind her.

"Yes, my Lady?"

Hermione gestured to the carpet. "Could you cover this area with a plastic sheet or something to protect the carpet?"

"Of course. I'll see if we have some in the kitchen." Pansy Apparated away.

Falkner was staring at her curiously. He tried to switch expressions when Hermione looked at him, but was too slow, and she had already caught him.

"Did you have a question?" she asked.

"No—pardon me, my Lady, I didn't mean to upset you."

"What's your first name?" she asked.

"Martin, my Lady." He bowed again.

There was a loud rustling sound, and they looked down to find that a long plastic sheet now covered the area they were standing on.

"Wouldn't an Impervius have worked just as well?" Martin asked, and then flinched. "Apologies, my Lady. I didn't mean to—it's just that I usually use an Impervius charm to cover ground when I paint."

"It's alright," Hermione said gently.

This was something else she would never get used to. The way everyone treated her now, as if she might strike them down merely for sneezing in her presence, it broke her heart. "An Impervius could have worked, but the spell has such a small radius I'd grow tired of casting it over and over again, considering the space you're working in."

"I might have done it myself, I wasn't thinking," Martin said. "Forgive me."

"It's really alright," she said, smiling. Fear or not, it was always refreshing to speak to someone who didn't mean her harm. There were some exceptions, of course—Pansy definitely would never hurt her, but if Draco ordered her to, she'd have no choice. "Shall I sit now?"

"Yes, please, my Lady." Martin was picking palette knives out of the disorganized mess of his suitcase. Hermione sat on the chaise and watched him. He was young—couldn't have been older than herself and Draco. But he had lines on his face and a bent posture that suggested he spent more time awake than asleep, and indoors, at that. Probably working on other paintings, or on his studies. Hermione felt a pang of jealousy.

Another loud _CRACK_ signaled Toffee's arrival. She bowed to Hermione and snapped her fingers.

A rather large pile of boxes appeared beside Martin's easel. He scrambled backward, taken aback by the size of it.

"Does Mistress Hermione require anything?" Toffee asked Hermione.

"No. Thank you, Toffee."

Toffee Apparated away again, and Martin put his hands on his hips, surveying the boxes with a bewildered look.

"I can't accept all of this," he muttered, shaking his head. "This is too much, my Lady."

His voice almost echoed in the large library.

"Take it," Hermione insisted. "My husband isn't always so kind."

Martin nodded absently. "Yes, I've heard stories…" He glanced nervously at her and said no more.

Hermione knew that look too well.

"If anything, it means he likes you," she said. But they both knew it was a lie.

 _Rather, he sees you can be useful to him._

"Good, it's all here."

Draco had entered the library. He joined them quickly. Martin began to open a few of the boxes and had unearthed many sets of paint and brown bottles filled with mediums.

"I expect that'll be enough."

"It's more than enough," Martin said, and bowed again. "I am extremely grateful, my Lord."

"I expect you to put it to good use." Draco went to Hermione. She met his eye and saw his frown.

"What's wrong?"

Draco covered her from Martin's view with his body, and waved his hand over her. Hermione looked down to find he'd changed out her dress for his favorite green one. She hadn't worn it since he'd fucked her against the wall weeks ago, when he'd returned home.

Draco held her chin in his hand, tilted her head upwards to meet his eye.

"I had to have you preserved forever in this dress," he said, and then stepped away.

Suddenly cold, Hermione rubbed at her arms. Martin had finished unboxing everything and had put on a new smock. He vanished the boxes by pointing his wand at them, and now held a piece of charcoal in his hand.

"I've got further business to attend to, if you're ready to begin," Draco said to Martin. He looked at Hermione. "Call Toffee or Pansy if you need anything. I'll be dropping in to check progress."

Hermione nodded.

Draco looked at Martin closely. "Heed my warnings and you'll have no need to worry."

The hairs on Hermione's arms prickled. "What warnings?"

"He can look all he wants to paint the picture," Draco said, his cold eyes smoldering as he watched her. "But you are mine, and if he touches you he'll lose both hands so he can't ever paint again."

Martin had gone white. Hermione had gone rigid in the chair, her cheeks both cold and hot with indignation. A vicious reply was poised on her lips and she had to clench her jaw tight to hold it within, or risk igniting Draco's wrath.

Draco, aware of both their reactions, continued without remorse. "But if you obey me and nothing goes amiss, I'll see to it your career as an artist will be wanting for nothing. Understand?"

"Of course, my Lord," Martin said, and bowed again. "I would never presume to act unfavorably towards my Lady."

Draco's look of haughtiness begged for Hermione's fist to plow into it. "See to it you don't."

Draco left the room.

Hermione finally remembered to unclench her jaw. Martin was watching her nervously, and she hid the wavering of her expression by rubbing at her forehead.

"My Lord is very protective of you," he said, and she knew he had seen her resentment towards her husband.

Hermione shook her head.

"He doesn't like it when his things are tampered with," she said quietly. She smoothed the silk on her thigh. Her fingers were trembling.

Martin looked as though he wanted to say something else but had changed his mind after a glance at the door revealed it was propped open. It had not been that way, before. He stepped behind his canvas and cleared his throat.

"Could you turn and face the window, my Lady?"

Hermione shifted on the chair awkwardly.

"You may take any pose as long as it's comfortable, my Lady," he said, watching, and the timid look of his eye had turned assessing. More confident. It was interesting to see. Hermione could see wheels turning in his head.

"You don't always have to say that," she said. She sat stiffly in the chair, not knowing what would make a proper pose. Draco would insist she hold her head high and square her shoulders, to look commanding. All things that didn't feel like her.

"Pardon, my Lady?"

"That," she said, fighting the internal cringe at the title. "I'd prefer if you didn't use it so often."

"Oh…of course, my—" he caught himself and nodded. "Of course. If that's what you want."

Hermione gave him a small smile. "Thank you. You can use it as much as you like when Draco is present, since that's what he wants to hear. I prefer being called by my name."

Martin looked unsure. "Of course." He stepped back towards the canvas. "Could you move your left arm to the left?"

* * *

An hour later, Martin had finished a rudimentary sketch. He asked Hermione what she thought of it, and she stood, stretched, and went to see it.

The sketch was minimal, with some shading but enough structure to find herself seated at the chair, the splendid library around her. Her drawn self sat with her feet on the ground, as if she were seated in a regular chair, mostly supported with her left arm while her right sat in her lap.

"Do you approve?" Martin asked. His hands were grey and blackened with charcoal. He kept at least three feet of space between them.

Hermione, who'd never had much skill in the arts, thought it was good enough to frame and hang there and then. She told him so, and he smiled.

"The pose is wrong."

Draco approached them from behind, frowning at the canvas.

"How so, my Lord?" Martin asked, his face pale again.

"She looks too stiff. You're supposed to lie back on the chaise, my love," he said, turning to look at Hermione. "Or at least rest against it."

"I'd have fallen asleep," Hermione said, trying to smile. Martin looked as if he expected to be executed on the spot.

"That's alright, so long as you don't move, my Lady," Martin replied, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

Draco held his hand out to Hermione. "Come."

She met his eye angrily. He stared at her, blank-faced, expectant.

 _Fuck you._

Hermione ignored him and went to the chair. She could sense Draco's temper spike and felt her stomach drop, but didn't care. She would not allow him to lead her around like some sort of trained pet. She detested it more than anything, and it was always ten times worse when he chose to do it in front of someone else.

He reached the chaise before she did, and moved it so that it faced the canvas at a forty-five degree angle rather than head on from the front. He stared hard at her, his eyes alight with that look that promised retribution. He was holding back a smile. She could sense it more than see it.

His unspoken command hung in the air between them. She would have liked nothing more than to leave the room and leave him there with that stupid cold look in his eyes, but what would she do when he inevitably came after her and punished her?

 _Nothing._

Always, that answer. She was sick of it.

 _He always loves it when you fight back. It just means he gets to break you all over again._

Hate raised gooseflesh all along her arms. She fought a shudder.

She sat down stiffly, unable to meet Martin's ashen expression.

From behind, Draco grabbed her by the nape of her neck and her waist. She could feel his hot breath against her skin. Her heart pounded.

"Lie back," he said, and she obeyed, coming to rest against the wall of the chaise. "On your side."

"Bring your legs up and bend them."

She obeyed. Her teeth were set so tightly together, she would not be surprised if they shattered.

He took her arm and bent it, set it down by her front so her palm was pressed against the leather. Her breasts were pressed together, and through the deep neckline and thin fabric, left little to the imagination.

A tear broke free of her restraint and slid down her cheek. He grabbed her by the ankle and pulled gently on her leg so it was slightly more extended than the other. Her skirt, trapped beneath her, stayed put so that most of her leg and half of the other were exposed.

Her hair was in his hands, and he pulled most of it behind her back, arranged some of it to fan over her body, but not in a manner that obstructed too much from view.

He stepped in front of her now, and crouched. Now, his anger was apparent. She met his gaze defiantly, and he reached out, grabbed her by the throat and brought her forward until she was perilously close to falling off entirely, and crushed his lips against hers.

"You know it only excites me every time you defy me," he murmured. He gave her bottom lip a sharp bite and she gasped, but it was muffled quickly by his tongue sliding into her mouth. His hand was squeezing her breast, hard enough to make her arch away.

His tongue tracked along her lip and he kissed her again like he wanted to imprint his own lips onto hers, his mouth moving feverishly, as if he couldn't get enough.

When he finally let her go she coughed, her face crimson, her lips ravaged, tender and swollen.

He stood again and turned to Martin, who looked as though he wished he could Apparate away that second.

"I want you to capture her exactly as she looks now," Draco said. "Even if she cries."

He turned to Hermione again and met her eye calmly. His own lips were flushed, wet with her taste.

He didn't have to say anything. She understood. Hermione righted herself and assumed the pose he had put her in, rage boiling her blood.

Draco left immediately, and she fixed her eyes on the wall on the far side of the room.

Martin stood there, frozen, for a second or two, and when the shock and distaste had sunk in, along with the apparent realization there was nothing he could do, he pointed his wand at his canvas, muttered an _Evanesco,_ took his charcoal, and began to draw anew.

Hermione kept her eyes open until her eyes had gone dry.

* * *

Dinner was almost completely silent. Lucio had fashioned himself a wand out of a stick he'd found outside. It lay beside his plate and he pushed around his vegetables, frowning.

Hermione caught his eye, smiled, and gave the broccoli a pointed look. His frown turned deeper.

Draco wouldn't even look at her. He stared straight ahead, eating silently. He had taken off his robes and underneath, wore a regular suit. He'd taken the jacket off to eat, and rolled up the sleeves. Hermione watched him cut his meat out of her peripheral vision; tense, waiting for when he would decide to speak.

"Daddy told me you're making a painting," Lucio said. "I didn't know you could paint."

Draco put down his knife and smiled. "Neither of us can. Well, I wouldn't be surprised if your mother could. She would learn instantly, I think. I hired a man to paint a picture of your mother."

"I want to learn how to paint," Lucio announced. "I want to paint you, too."

Hermione laughed and held his hand. "Of course, you can, sweetheart."

Draco wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Your time is better spent focusing on your schoolwork."

Lucio's sweet little face looked lost. "But I'm not in school, father."

"Soon, you will be. It's important that you learn as much as you can, now, so you'll be more advanced than the others. You can worry about painting later."

Lucio's crestfallen expression stirred Hermione's heart.

She looked at Draco. "He has plenty of time to learn now," she said.

Draco didn't look at her. "He'll learn what I say he can learn."

Unhappy, Lucio stared down at his plate. Hermione put her fork down. A headache was building behind her temples.

"Eat your vegetables, Lucio," Draco said. "You promised your mother you would this morning."

Still upset, Lucio banged his fork against his plate. "But I don't _like_ them!"

"I don't want to hear you whine," Draco said coldly. "I want to see you eat."

Lucio rubbed at his eye with a little fist. He took one piece of broccoli and ate it, his face miserable.

Hermione squeezed his hand. "It might not taste good, but it's good for you. They'll help you grow strong and healthy."

"Do I have to eat them _all?"_

"Yes," Draco said.

Lucio sniffed and ate the last two together, swallowing hastily.

"Can I go now?"

Hermione stood and went to him, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Get ready for bed, okay?"

"Ok, mummy."

Draco summoned Pansy, who took Lucio upstairs to ready for bed.

Draco was still seated at the table. His eyes were on her now, but he hadn't said anything. Hermione, unwilling to bear his silence further, decided it was time to leave.

As she neared the door, Draco spoke.

"Come here, Hermione."

She stopped short. She could sense what was coming; could sense the malice reaching out towards her from him like tendrils.

"I won't say it again."

She went to him.

Draco pushed his hair back and stood.

"I'd wondered if you were having trouble hearing," he said. "I see there's no issue."

She crossed her arms. "You know I hate the way you treat me, like I'm there to do your bidding. I'm not a dog who'll follow your every damn order."

"Would you rather I had grabbed you without saying anything and led you to the chair?"

"It's the same, either way," Hermione snapped. "I never have a choice."

Draco stepped closer. "It's your choice how much you'll allow yourself to be humiliated. I wouldn't have ordered you like that if you'd come to me in the first place."

Hermione scoffed.

"Do you have any _idea_ how it feels to be called a lady and treated the way you have them treat me like I'm royalty, and then have them all watch when you treat me like I'm nothing better than a slave? Every time I hear them say it, it's like they're mocking me."

"They wouldn't dare mock you," he said. "They know you answer only to me." He grabbed her arms and pulled her close. "A powerful witch, at my side, in my bed. I'd have no one else."

"I'm no better than a bowtruckle here," she replied angrily. "You want them to respect me. How can they, when I can't even use magic?"

"You don't need it," he said. He led her to the table and bent her over it. Luckily, it had already been cleared, or Hermione would have found herself elbow-deep in the remnants of their dinner.

She was still wearing the green gown. Draco pushed the skirt up, running his hands over her legs. She heard the zip of his fly. Hermione braced herself on the table. His fingers stroked her labia, but it wasn't enough. He muttered a spell to add lubrication.

" _I'm_ all you need," Draco said, and pushed inside her, pushing her body into the table. Hermione winced.

"I need my _magic_ back," Hermione said. "You don't get to decide what's good for me. Were you planning on keeping me without it until I die?"

"I was waiting for you to prove you deserved it back," he said, groaning softly. His hand pushed at her thigh. "Spread your legs."

She went tense underneath him. "I'm supposed to _earn_ it?"

He gave a hard thrust. Hermione bit back a whimper. "If you hadn't kept running away you'd have got it back a while ago."

"Liar."

He smiled. "If you continue to behave and not provoke me like this, you might get it back sooner."

The table scraped against the floor loudly under the force of his thrusts. Hermione clenched her jaw.

"I wasn't trying to provoke anything. I was angry. You can't just treat me the way you do every day and expect me to not feel about it in some form or other."

"You promised you would adapt," he reminded her coolly. His hands dug into her hips.

"I'm not a machine, Draco, I'm not like you!"

He slowed, ran his hand along her back, his hand entwining gently in her hair.

"No," he admitted, his voice quiet. "You're not. I forget, sometimes. You're still soft."

Hermione said nothing, gripping the side of the table.

He resumed thrusting, almost thoughtfully, and when he finally finished, he spelled away his mess and helped her stand. Face red, Hermione shoved her skirt back down. He tucked himself back into his trousers.

"If you'll be patient with me, I'll be patient with you," he said. "I don't want you to feel lesser to me."

"I always will, so long as I'm kept here against my will." She said, fighting the urge to glare at him. "You know that, and you know what the solution is."

His eyes were cold, inscrutable. "I do. I've told you before and I'll tell you again: I'm not letting you free."

Hermione had expected this reply. She had lost count of how many times he had told her that, by now. The sting had faded long ago, but morphed into resentment and hate.

"If having your magic back will help ease your mind, then you'll have it," he said, reaching forward to wrap her in his arms. "You're right—you are my wife—you should be as feared as I am."

"I don't want anybody to fear me," she said, frowning.

"They do, regardless, when they see you at my side. They know you aren't just some ordinary witch."

Hermione looked at him doubtfully. "You don't think I'm ordinary."

His hand came up to smooth her hair. "I've always known you weren't, just like you knew that about me, sweetheart."

 _I always knew you were an immeasurable, egotistical prick._

"When will I get my magic back?"

Draco smiled again. His hands had come up to cup her neck between them. His thumbs idly played with the gems nestled there. "Once you prove yourself as obedient as you promised me you'd be when you spared Longbottom's life. You know I don't mind when you show me your fire. When you defy me in front of the ones I command, however, is where I have a problem."

"When you remember to treat me like an actual human being, and your _wife,_ rather than some slave who happens to wear your ring,I'll do my best to curtsy and smile and act like a good hostess," Hermione snapped.

" _They_ bow to _you,_ Hermione," he said sharply. "Never forget that."

"I don't want anyone to bow to me!"

"Did you want your magic back, or not?" he asked, impatient. "I'm not asking for much, Hermione. I could have just Imperiused you and denied you the _possibility_ of getting it back, altogether, but you don't want that, do you?"

Hermione's blood ran cold.

"No."

"Then you'll do as I say, or I won't be interested in having this conversation again."

He kissed her cheek, and left. Cold and furious, Hermione stood there for a moment, her mind already buzzing with a hundred and one thoughts on the first thing she might do when she got her magic back.

So he wanted to play it his way. Fine. She was used to it. She didn't like it, but she would play. She knew without a doubt that he would use this to his advantage to get what he wanted, even humiliate her a little further, but she didn't care. If there was even the slightest possibility that she could use magic again, she would take it.

 _And I'll win._


	4. Trials

**An explicit chapter, ye be warned. Sorry for the delay, everyone. Please leave a review, if you can? I'd really appreciate it.**

* * *

 **Four.**

Draco straddled his wife, his hands tight around her waist. Her smooth, hot skin was like the welcome of a hot bath after a tiresome day. Her long, beautiful hair spread over her back; he wanted to bunch it in his fist and pull on it hard. He had to refrain from doing so—it would be a rude awakening, and she was about to receive one anyhow, but he didn't want her to be _too_ furious upon waking. His wife had a hot little temper, and though he enjoyed it very much, he wasn't in the mood for starting off the day with too much negativity.

He settled himself in between her legs, one hand on her ass, the other on his hard cock. His body thrummed with anticipation, the urge to push, to claim.

Unaware, his wife continued to sleep, her head nestled in her arms on her pillow. Her pale, creamy skin was like marble in the morning light—he spread her legs apart wider, traced a finger or two over her cleft, savoring her heat. He worked her there for a moment, dipping in and out, stroking her clitoris until she began to burn hotter and he felt his fingers become coated with her slickness. He worked her slowly, carefully, so that she wouldn't wake.

That she was craving him was evident—she twitched now and then through her sleep, and her arousal was an aphrodisiac wine that continued to flow. He felt her walls begin to twitch and clamp, searching for something that wasn't there.

 _Yet._

He pushed in slowly, watching greedily as her lips wrapped around him, the way he disappeared inside her, inch by inch.

She shifted but didn't wake. A long, quiet breath emanated from her. Draco squeezed her ass again, pulling at her cheek to accommodate him, groaning in pleasure, still pushing until he had accommodated his entire length inside her exquisite heat. He had to stop for a moment before starting to thrust, to calm his breathing, worried he might spend himself inside her too quickly. He took a moment to purview her body again, the way she was displayed before him. Her muscles were still clamping around him slowly, urging movement, seeking pleasure. Draco bit his lip to keep from hissing too loudly. He let out a harsh breath and gave a small thrust, rocking his hips against hers, feeling pleasure ripple through him.

 _Perfect._

He pulled back and did it again. Her muscles continued to pull at him, reluctant to have him withdraw.

He had put her under a sleeping charm before starting, upon her request. It was a regular habit of his to wake her up wanting sex, or for her to wake up with him already fucking her. She had always hated it and had almost had a breakdown the first time she had caught him doing it. He knew the reason why; she had no control over what happened to her body. If he decided one day he wanted her to get a piercing, or even brand her again, she couldn't say no. If he wanted to fuck her in front of his followers, she had no other option but to bear it, or enjoy it. She'd said she didn't want to be woken up, so he was allowed to put her under whenever he wanted, and it worked perfectly, because he could get his release, and she wouldn't be disturbed.

And ever the thoughtful husband, he obliged.

Finally, he pulled farther back out and began to thrust, his need already so great that his thrusts were rough, moving the bed. She was slick, her body clenching around him, her beautiful, pert ass pressed against him.

It was never as satisfying as when she was awake. When asleep, she didn't make those lovely, gasping sounds or moans, or even her grunts and cries of pain that he loved so much. When he fucked her, he wanted to see how she reacted to him. Whether it was hate or pleasure, he didn't care.

Still, a body was a body, and there was none he preferred more than that of his wife, and his need was so great he carried on without further complaint. His hands were on her hips now, those perfect hips, and he was rutting into her, almost like an animal. He was moaning, sweat beading along his temples, his nerves flaring with pleasure. The sound of him plunging into her was the only sound in the room aside from his heavy breathing, but as he listened closer, he caught the sound of her labored breathing, the faintest of moans coming from her.

She began pulsing around him, her walls contracting and pulling him deeper. Her thighs quivered. Her face, even in slumber, was flushed and damp. Her mouth had opened slightly. He grinned, knowing she had climaxed.

He gripped her harder and pushed into her hard, his balls drawing tight as he emptied himself inside her.

"Fuck." He hissed, grinding his hips against her. Her pussy was red and swollen, still contracting around him slowly, holding him so tightly he had to thrust harder to sate his lust. She came again, her whole body drawing tight like a bowstring. He watched her, fascinated.

When he had finished he pulled out, watching as his seed slowly dripped out of her in thick trails.

"Finite Incantatem." He moved to her side, running a hand through his hair.

She awoke quickly, drawing in a deep breath and rolling onto her side, pushing her hair from her face, peering at him through sleep-dazed eyes. She saw him there, nude and his cock still slick from sex, and something went hard in her eyes. She started to sit up, but Draco held her down and kissed her deeply, one hand travelling down to her clitoris. He started to rub, and right away she had melted and was clenching her thighs together, making those little sounds into his mouth.

"Little minx," he said teasingly, slightly out of breath.

"Thank you, my Lord," she recited dully. He grinned and kissed her again.

"Martin's waiting in the library," he said to her.

"What time is it?" she asked. Her eyes were screwed shut. A deeper flush tinted her cheeks. Her breaths were shallow. Draco took her peaked nipple in his mouth and sucked on it hard, laving his tongue over it in broad strokes.

"It's almost ten," he said, applying more pressure to her clit. Her hips jerked.

"Ah—" she gave a sharp gasp. He teased her nipple with a gentle grazing of his teeth. "Yes, just like that, Draco."

He was getting hard again. Without needing to prompt her, she reached down and took his cock in her hand and began to stroke. Draco moaned.

"Some of my followers will be here later today, for a meeting," he said. "They're to eat dinner with us."

She nodded, her eyes still shut tight, her brows furrowed. Her mouth in an 'o', she leaned forward, curling in on herself, breathing fast, her body quivering again. When it had passed, she went limp on the bed, her thighs falling apart.

"That's enough," she said, seeing the look in his eyes.

Draco crawled over her again without preamble and pushed inside her. Her head went back into her pillow.

He fucked her fast and hard, and she came again almost instantly, crying out. He came soon after, swearing out loud.

Hermione began to sit up. Draco made no move to magic his semen away, so she stood and went to the shower.

She hadn't invited him, but he followed her inside anyhow, watching as she lathered shampoo into her hair. Her back was to him, but she had felt the cold draft of air that had snuck into the shower when he had entered. Draco washed himself beside her, watching now and then as she washed her body, rubbing the aromatic gels over her breasts and stomach. She knew he was watching, as always, and moved stiffly, never once looking in his direction.

He helped her wash her back, massaging the suds over her tense muscles, gently pulling her hair out of the way, running down to her ass, and then her legs. Her head was turned to the side, lowered, her eye not looking at him but at the ground as he trailed his way back up.

She finished before he did, and made no move to help him wash, which he had not expected anyway, but he caught her before she exited the shower and took her face in his hands and gave her a deep kiss.

"The green dress, and nothing else," he reminded her, when they had pulled apart.

Resigned, still tired, she nodded, and left.

* * *

Martin was waiting in the library when she entered, cold and too aware of her nipples being visible through the green silk. She was sorely tempted to cross her arms and cover herself, but knew that if Draco saw her, he would command her to never be ashamed of her body.

 _I never was, until he said he couldn't control himself around me._

She'd only known Martin for one day, and could tell he was rather shy, but she'd been tricked before. One could never tell one's true nature after only one day of knowing them. Still, Draco's threat remained in the air around them, and she knew she would have little reason to worry.

Martin bowed deeply as she approached. "Good morning, my Lady."

Hermione opened her mouth, about to remind him gently about her preference not to be called that, when she stopped short, sensing Draco's presence behind her.

"Good morning," she replied, smiling.

"I hope we didn't keep you waiting too long," Draco said, after Martin had bowed to him as well.

"It was nothing, my Lord," Martin said. "I had time to continue work on the background of the painting."

 _Indeed,_ Hermione thought, as she looked around Martin and at the canvas. Already she could see the bookcases taking form, the deep tones of the walls and curtains already blocked in. No detail yet, but through the shapes and colors of things she could guess easily what they were. She stared at the edges of the canvas, avoiding looking at the sketch of herself, which Martin had not yet begun to paint.

"It looks wonderful," she said. "I'm always fascinated by seeing the process behind paintings."

Martin flushed. "It is a mess, my Lady, but I thank you."

Draco had wrapped his arm around Hermione's waist.

"I look forward to seeing the finished piece," he said.

"I only hope it will be worthy of your approval, my Lord. Shall we begin, my Lady?" Martin asked, gesturing to the chaise.

It was Draco who replied. "Of course." He led Hermione to the chaise and helped her arrange herself onto it, in the same pose he had chosen for her the day before. His hand brushed against her breast—their gazes connected; hers, wary, his, electric.

"We're expecting company tonight, for dinner," Draco said to Martin, his eyes still on Hermione's. "You're welcome to join us."

Martin, who had picked up his palette and brush, paused. "I thank you my Lord, but I'm afraid I can't. My father is sick, and I must visit him."

"Another time, perhaps," Draco said, finally turning from Hermione. "Send me his location. I'll arrange for a good Healer to see to him today."

"Thank you, my Lord." Martin bowed again.

Draco stood, looming over Hermione. She stared back at him. He placed his hand on her cheek.

"I'll come back to check progress soon," he said, and left.

* * *

Posing for a portrait was really quite boring, Hermione decided, as she lay uncomfortably on the chaise.

 _Damn Draco and his spite._

Her hip ached from lying on her side for so long, and she longed to get up and walk around. The day was passing by, and she hadn't seen Lucio since breakfast. As interesting as watching Martin paint might be, she couldn't even see the painting when she was situated behind it, and she found it rather awkward to have Martin's intense gaze on her as he glanced back and forth between her and the canvas. The library was mostly silent except for the sound of the furious brushstrokes he administered to the canvas, an occasional muttering to himself, the tinkling of palette-knife against his palette.

The odor of the turpentine was strong, but she didn't mind it. Even the paints themselves had a strong odor to them, and she wondered for the first time if Draco had commissioned Martin for moving portraits. What made them move? She longed to ask but was unsure if she should speak for fear of interrupting Martin's thought process.

"May I take a break?" Hermione asked, after ten more minutes had passed and the restlessness grew too great to bear. "I'm stiff and sore from lying down."

Martin blinked and looked at her. He looked a little dazed, and again, she felt that sharp pang of jealousy at recognizing that feeling at once. Too many times, before being claimed by Draco, she'd done the same exact thing. Become wholly absorbed in a book, in writing a paper, in knitting, until something snapped her focus. She could still hear Harry and Ron's voices as they teased her over it, as if she'd just seen them yesterday rather than years ago.

Her heart constricted.

"Of course, my La—sorry," he said, putting down his palette. "I'm sure you don't need my permission to stand and stretch." He offered her a small smile.

Hermione winced internally. If Draco had heard, he would have chastised her. She could already hear his voice in her head.

 _'Don't ask for a break. Announce that you want one and take it. He can't say no.'_

She pushed it away as she stood, and stretched, craning her neck from side to side to work out the kinks. Martin was wiping his hands on a rag.

"If the pose is uncomfortable," he said, "we could just start over with a new one."

"No," Hermione said quickly. "He wouldn't like that."

"My apologies, Hermione." He said her name quickly, in a lower voice, as if afraid that someone might overhear it and report him to Draco.

"No reason to fret," she said. "My husband simply likes things done his way."

"I'm aware," Martin said quietly. Quieter, still: "I was not keen on taking this job, initially."

Hermione could only guess as to why. Had Draco forced him to do it?

"He is paying you, isn't he?"

"A most generous sum," Martin said. "More than all the paintings I've sold collectively. Generally, though, most of my clients are less frightening." He smiled, as if telling a joke, but Hermione knew he meant it.

"He does take getting used to," she admitted.

"I suppose I'll have to," he replied. "But I do enjoy working for you, my Lady."

Hermione smiled. "I've never had my portrait taken, before."

"With all respect, my Lady, some would consider that a crime."

She walked around the area slowly. "I suppose my husband would, at least."

"Hello, Mummy!"

She looked sharply to the library doors, where Pansy was escorting Lucio inside. He was waving a roll of parchment as he ran up to her, beaming. Pansy followed him, smiling.

"Look!" Lucio thrust the scroll up at her. Hermione took it, and then scooped him up into her arms.

"What is it, darling?" she asked.

He shook his head and pointed to the paper excitedly. "Just look!"

With some trouble, she opened the parchment and found a list of several arithmetic questions, all solved correctly. A red ink '100%' was written neatly across the top.

"Well done!" Hermione said, kissing him on the cheek. "I'm sure Bryson is very pleased, too."

"Very," Pansy said. "He got to leave early, today."

"Can I show Father, mummy?" Lucio asked. His little hands tapped her shoulders playfully.

"I'm not sure," Hermione said. "He might be busy. Can you wait until dinner?"

"Okay," Lucio said. He took back his maths paper from her and folded it carefully.

"Would you like to meet Martin?" Hermione asked, gesturing to Martin, who stood by the canvas, politely minding his own business. "He's an artist."

Lucio's blue eyes widened. "The painter?"

Hermione took his hand. "The very one!"

They walked over to Martin, who looked nervous. He bowed to them.

"Lucio, this is Martin Falkner. He'll be painting pictures of us."

"Really?" Lucio asked. He held his maths paper at his side like an important folio. "Is he going to paint Daddy, too?"

"Of course."

"It is an honor to meet you, little Lord," Martin said, smiling down at Lucio. "You look very much like your father."

"Can I see your painting?" Lucio asked, pointing to the large canvas.

"Of course," Martin said. "Right this way."

He and Lucio went to look at the painting. Lucio hurried before it eagerly, and then stood there, his face falling blank.

"It doesn't look like mummy."

The adults laughed. Lucio looked around, perplexed.

"I'm afraid I'm in trouble," Martin said, grinning, though she could sense his nervousness.

"It isn't done yet, my love," Hermione explained to Lucio. "Paintings take a lot of work and time to finish. It might not look like me now, but it will soon."

Lucio frowned. "Oh."

"There you are." Draco joined them in the library, having Apparated in silently. Hermione jumped as he appeared beside her, taking her hand in his. "I heard my son had news for me."

"Daddy!" Lucio showed him his paper.

"Excellent," Draco said, picking him up. "I knew you could do it."

"Bryson said I'm advanced for my age," Lucio said proudly, crossing his arms.

"I'd expect no less, if you have both your mother's and my brains in you," Draco said, grinning. "Pansy, I believe there's some chocolate gateau in the kitchens. Serve him a slice."

"Right away, my Lord." Pansy curtseyed and took the exultant Lucio away.

"I'm sorry to cut into your painting time," Draco said to Martin. "Our guests are beginning to arrive."

"Forgive me, my Lord," Martin said, looking rather surprised as he looked down at his watch. "I'm afraid I lost track of time. We were taking a break, and I had the honor of meeting your son."

"Remember to send me your father's location," Draco said. He turned to Hermione. "Go upstairs and change."

She ignored the bite of anger at his command, and turned to Martin, who bowed again.

"Until tomorrow," she said.

"Of course, my Lady."

* * *

Waiting for her upstairs was a black gown. She slipped it on and moved about getting ready slowly, not wanting to go downstairs and dine with his followers. Luckily, it didn't happen too often, but increasingly of late, they were coming over, unless Draco was away. Hermione hated it every time and wished they would never visit at all.

 _If anything, I suppose I should be grateful he doesn't have me wear their robes._

His choker was still around her neck. She hated the feel of it against her throat, but, like the ring, couldn't take it off.

 _Another display of ownership._

She shook her head and sighed.

The door opened, and Pansy entered.

"Anything in particular?" she asked.

"I don't care," Hermione said.

Pansy squeezed her shoulder gently, and led her to the vanity, where Hermione sat down in front of the mirror.

"Who's here tonight?" she asked, as Pansy began to rub some sweet-smelling oil into her hair.

"Nott. Crabbe. Greengrass sisters. Goyle, but you know he'll be late. I'm not sure who else. It'll be a small gathering, tonight."

That, at least, was a relief to hear.

"Is there a reason why they're coming?" she asked.

"He hasn't told me anything other than that."

She would have stayed longer upstairs if she could. She hadn't even needed that much time to get ready. Pansy had helped arrange her hair and she needed no other adjustments than to change her dress, but the ring on her finger seemed to emanate an odd sense of urgency, and she knew Draco was growing impatient.

 _Don't keep him waiting._

Her palms were sweaty on the way to the dining room. Lucio would not be joining them. He usually never did, for those meetings. Draco had said he would when he was older.

At least the gown had long sleeves. That would keep her somewhat warm, in spite of the deep plunge between her breasts. She wiped her palms on her skirt and walked inside.

They were already seated, Draco included, but rose to greet her. They all bowed. Draco went to her, held out his hand, and when she took it, guided her to her seat beside his at the head of the table.

Hermione felt their eyes on her and resisted the urge to shiver. She met them all coolly, her face carefully blank.

"It's good to see you, my Lady," Nott said. "I hope you are well." His eyes dipped down to glance at her breasts. Indignation flared inside her.

"Perfectly," she said, her voice curt.

The food was served, and they began to eat.

Although she had no appetite, Hermione forced herself to eat, knowing that if she didn't, there would be questions, and perhaps a reprimand from Draco.

He was talking to Crabbe, who sat on his right. Crabbe sported a thick scar on his temple and a crooked nose, courtesy of some battle she hadn't been informed of.

Astoria Greengrass and her sister Daphne sat side by side, speaking to another follower who Hermione had seen once before but couldn't recall his name. The final two at the end of the table were older, and she very vaguely recognized them as having been some of Voldemort's original Deatheaters.

The blond one with the scowling, shrewd eyes and the thin lips was Dolohov. The round one with the jowls and the dark, beady eyes was Amycus. The thickly bearded one beside Daphne with the black, greying hair and large nose had to be Rodolphus Lestrange.

 _I wonder where his wife is._

She hadn't seen Bellatrix in some time.

 _It's better that way,_ she thought. Bellatrix had an infuriating habit of bringing Harry up every time she was around her, as if she knew how much it still hurt, or that it made Draco rougher at night, when they were alone together.

Rodulphus had caught her looking at him, and inclined his head, acknowledging her. She looked away.

Now and then, she missed Blaise. They hadn't even known each other that well, aside from him helping her escape. But a familiar face was a familiar face, and though some of these faces were familiar, and they acted polite enough, she desperately longed for one that didn't mean her ill.

"I'm glad you're all here," Draco said. "I haven't seen some of you in some time. I trust you'll have good news for me."

They nodded.

"Of course, my Lord," Amycus said in his ugly, hoarse voice. "I think you'll be very pleased."

Draco smiled thinly over his goblet of wine. "We'll see."

There was an awkward pause, and then Nott turned to Hermione.

"My Lord has mentioned you're having your likeness taken," he said.

Hermione glanced at Draco, who was smiling at her.

"It was his wish," she said, trying to smile. She felt Draco's hand on the nape of her neck, brushing over her skin.

"Such beauty can't go uncelebrated," he said, staring deep into her eyes. Hermione flushed with anger, and they chuckled.

"So modest," Nott said.

"May we see it, my Lord?" Astoria asked from the other end of the table, as she wiped at her mouth. "I'm sure it's wonderful."

"Of course it will be," Draco said, and finally dropped his hand from Hermione's neck. "Not until it's finished."

Hermione busied herself with eating her soup, overwhelmed by the urge to walk out of the room. She had sat through so many of these dinners, and each time she always felt like a hostage. They made banal conversation and hinted at what they were currently working towards, as Draco didn't quite trust her enough to hear everything just yet. She had actually found herself grateful. Of the things they let slip, or didn't care to censor, she figured she had heard enough to haunt her forever. The crimes and coverups, the corruption. The constant deaths. Every time she listened as keenly as she dared for a familiar name, but those cropped up rarely, now. She had been hopeful for a while, until the realization hit her that most of her friends had probably died years ago, at the last battle, when Draco had killed Harry, and she had got there too late.

 _But just in time to save Neville._

Her grip on her spoon tightened.

 _And where is he, now? Dead?_

She hadn't heard any mention of his name since that day. Draco had said he'd kept his word, and not gone after him, but she didn't know if she could trust him. For every time he made a promise like that, he went and broke the non-existent trust she had in him in some other gruesome way.

"Where's Bella tonight?" Crabbe asked.

Rodolphus shrugged. "Looking over some new captives. The Snatchers found a group of would-be escapees over by the ruins."

Hermione frowned.

Daphne was shaking her head. "I don't envy them at all. They're probably wishing they got Fenrir, instead. I bet they're sorry they dared to trespass, now."

Draco took a long drink. "If they behave, they won't have anything to be sorry about."

"This is the second time, my Lord," Crabbe said, frowning. "There's nothing there, now. What are they looking for?"

"There's nothing there to interest them," Draco said curtly, and Hermione understood that to mean Crabbe had said too much, and the conversation was over.

The rest of the dinner went by slowly. Nothing special happened, except for Draco's hand slithering into her lap during dessert. He had stroked her thigh slowly, enough to make it warm, and she had sat through it as still as stone, her heart pounding, fearing his next move.

The others had noticed. The men's eyes had slid towards them, and then away, as if it was nothing, although some of them lingered for a fraction longer. The two sisters had pretended not to see it at all, and carried on their conversation with Nott, as if it was all ordinary. And Hermione had sat there, stiff with dread, praying he would no go further, as she knew he wanted to do, and had insinuated before.

 _He's testing me again._

When he'd finally pulled back his hand, her thigh was hot, and the silk of her dress clung to her bare thigh, so close to the joining of her legs. She was pale, sweating, aware of their gazes on her.

He stood from the table, held his hand out to her to help her up. The others also stood at once.

"Goodnight, my love," he said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "Go check on our son and wait for me upstairs."

She nodded, her resentment clogging her throat to the point she couldn't form words. His kiss was chaste and proper, as though he hadn't been stroking her vulva through her dress only moments before. The rest of them bowed and bid her good sleep, and she forced herself to walk out of the room, rather than run.

She was still sweating when she entered the corridor, her hair in disarray around her temples. She pushed it away, her breath short, tears stinging at her eyes.

 _Don't let them hear._

She hurried on, stumbling over herself in her haste to remove herself from their presence as quickly as possible.

She was nothing but a show pony to them. Draco had said as much repeatedly over the years.

" _My perfect witch, tamed and bedded."_

How often he liked to say he'd tamed her.

 _He's wrong._

If anything, sometimes she felt wilder in her rage than she'd remembered being before her capture.

She was sick of it. He still kept his plans from her and her knowledge of the outside world was still limited, confined only to what he thought fit for her to know, although he gradually let her become to some information, but it still wasn't enough. As to the state and wellbeing of the world, she knew only as far as the small towns that surrounded them. Snippets of the wizard world. Nothing on the Muggles.

For all she knew, he might have annihilated everyone else except for their little family and his followers. It was a silly thought, and for a moment, she wondered if given the chance, he would take it.

Her thigh was growing cold now from the rush of air against it her movements provided. He'd threatened more than once to fuck her in front of his followers in order to get her to behave, and she'd never seen it as anything more than a threat. But as of late, his hands had begun to wander, not unlike tonight, and that doubt had turned into a very real fear.

He had embarrassed her in front of them all before, countless times. Kissing, groping, making her sit in his lap, dressing her in clothes meant to tantalize, calling her pet names and treating her affectionately, as if he didn't rape her in their bed every other night. As if he hadn't beaten her to near unconsciousness on several occasions. As if he hadn't drugged her in order to gain his sick pleasure.

Her stomach was turning.

Once, he had been angry with her for some reason she couldn't remember any more, but she could recall the punishment still. He'd made her sit on her knees between his legs all during a meeting with his followers, and had her wear a low-cut gown. She'd sat there biting her tongue to keep from biting _him_ , as he'd cast an enchantment to keep her from hearing everything they said, whether it was important or not. He'd made her lean back against him and every now and then he'd feed her something on her plate, as though she were a helpless child who couldn't feed itself. His followers had acted as if she weren't there, but now and then, when she dared look at them, she'd catch one or two of them staring at her breasts.

They called her 'lady'. She had done nothing to deserve it but be forced into marriage. It was a title she'd never wanted and even now, wished fiercely that they would stop.

 _My name is Hermione Granger, and I didn't choose this life._

But what could she do?

She had behaved tonight. She had not lost her temper or defied him in any way. He must have noticed.

 _How long will I have to keep this up?_ She wondered, scowling. _How much until I get my power back?_

She'd already tried, countless times, to find a way how. She'd pored through her library and found nothing useful. She'd asked him questions, to which he'd given unsatisfactory answers. After her suicide attempt, the one that had spurred him into getting her pregnant, he had made an alteration to the ring's enchantments, that her ring could only be taken off when he was conscious and had given his approval. It had been a nasty shock for her to find out, the next time she had tried to escape. She'd waited until he was deeply asleep and had worked carefully to ensure success. Somehow, he'd known through his sleep what she'd tried to do and woken while she still had his hand around her finger, trying to pull the ring off. He had stared at her until she'd finally noticed and looked up, her face draining of color. He had done nothing but stare. She'd stopped moving, silently admitting defeat, and he'd wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, his breath warming her hair, one hand lying flat and spread over her pregnant belly.

Knowing him, he would just string her along forever with the promise that she had _almost_ earned her magic back, but not quite yet.

 _Once I get it back, will things change? Or will he restrict my magic so that it all stays the same?_

She already knew the answer.

He always wanted too much. Too much of her time, too much of her attentions. Too much sex, sometimes to the point that she was raw and sore afterwards and practically had to beg for peace or healing before he touched her again.

 _But when I want something, it's nigh impossible._

She found Lucio with Pansy, as she helped him get ready for bed. He ran to her and hugged her, accidentally smearing toothpaste on her skirt. Hermione laughed, and bent down to kiss the top of his head. The smell of the toothpaste and the sound of his childish little laugh struck her, and she flashed back to when she'd been a child, and her mother and father had let her study their orthodontic props from their offices. Her father had made the model of the human jaws speak to her and lecture about the importance of proper oral hygiene, and she'd found it so unexpectedly silly that she couldn't help but laugh until there were tears in her eyes.

She'd wiped away the tears before Lucio could see them, but Pansy had noticed. She'd given her a curious look and Hermione shook her head to indicate she was okay, though her heart ached, and she suddenly wished for a long walk, but there were other matters to attend to.

She and Pansy tucked Lucio in, and he, tired from a long day full of lessons and exploring around the garden with Pansy, fell asleep almost instantly. Hermione, not much in the mood for talking, bid Pansy goodnight, and left for the bedroom.

She found Draco already there, sitting on the bed, taking off his shoes. His robes lay over the back of the chair by her vanity. He set down his shoes, and noting her arrival, looked up, his elbows perched on his knees. Their eyes met. He waited for her to move.

Hermione, steeling herself, walked to him, standing before him. He didn't rise, but grasped the front of her skirt and pulled her closer, until her could grab her by the hips, his warm, large hands spreading over her flesh and pressing in gently through the fabric. His head was almost between her breasts. He pulled her in and breathed in her scent. Hermione let her hands fall to his shoulders, stroking softly, mechanically. He sighed, and the flood of hot breath over her was almost welcome, but only because the room was cold.

As if he knew her thoughts, the fire sprang to life in the hearth, crackling loudly.

Hermione bent low and let her lips touch his. He responded passionately, his hands groping harder, his lips like a wildfire, intent to destroy. He let her go and grabbed her dress by the neckline and moving one hand down between them, pressed flush against her, he magically sheared her dress through and down the middle.

She had not worn anything underneath, as he liked it. At once his mouth was on her breast, pressing hot kisses to the stretch marks that had graced her skin there during her pregnancy. His thumb teased her other nipple, which was stiff more from the cold than his attentions to it. His mouth wrapped around the tip of her breast and sucked, his tongue formed into a pointed tip and teased the bud until she arched against him, feeling a slickness at her core. His fingers reached down there and played with her clit, making her lean against him, gasping, reluctant need coiling inside her.

Flushed and panting, Hermione let him guide her onto the bed. He was sitting up against the headboard, his shirt open and exposing his muscled chest, his trousers already off, probably by magic. He had his hand around his erection, stroking himself lazily as he watched her, his light eyes watching her through lowered lids.

No order had to be made. She knew what to do.

Hermione went to him and sat astride his lap, her hands steadying herself on his shoulders. Draco's eyes stayed intent on her; he grabbed her by the sides of her face and kissed her deeply, his tongue sweeping over her bottom lip, as she guided herself down onto him.

At first contact she shuddered, both out of anticipation and revulsion. She continued to lower herself carefully until she had taken all of him, and he let his eyes close at last and moaned. He throbbed inside her. Hermione waited a moment for her body to relax. His size always guaranteed some sort of discomfort, however brief. She reached down with her fingers, closed her eyes, and played with herself, feeling herself clench around him. Draco moaned again, and his hips pushed up, earning himself a groan from her. His hands settled on her waist, thumbs pressing in, urging her to move.

Hermione grit her teeth.

 _Please him now, and destroy him later._ She repeated it to herself like a mantra, even like a prayer.

She held on to his shoulders once more, and began to move.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	5. Ruin

**Five.**

With Draco gone for a few days on undisclosed business, the atmosphere in the library had relaxed considerably. Hermione played soothing music from the phonograph in the library, and was able to spend more time with Lucio in the morning, before it was time to get to work on the painting. Martin muttered to himself now and then from behind the canvas, and Hermione had allowed her thoughts to stream undisturbed as she lay still on the chaise, nearly bored to tears.

Pansy and Lucio were outside, playing. They'd had a pleasant breakfast, with Pansy sitting between them rather than waiting on them, as was required when Draco was home. Hermione had suggested they take a picnic, and Lucio had immediately jumped onto the idea, taking his broomstick along with him. Hermione would have loved to go along with them had Martin not arrived shortly after, and though she liked his company, wished she could take a break from the painting, but didn't dare, knowing what Draco's opinion on that would be.

Two days prior, Lucio's lesson had ended early and Pansy had brought him into the library to visit her and Martin. Hermione had been delighted to see them, and, after having made sure she wasn't hindering Martin's painting progress, brought him up into her lap.

They'd chatted amiably and after a while Lucio slid from her lap to watch Martin paint. He had sat down behind the artist and with his legs crossed and his little fists propping his head up, he asked question after question, and Martin, with incredible patience, answered them all to Lucio's satisfaction.

The portrait painting was at the start of its second week of progress. Martin was unmarried, but tended to his father on weekends, so Draco had agreed to give him weekends off to travel to see his father. In the meantime, however, Hermione had grown comfortable with him, and although modeling for the portrait was still something she wasn't sure she liked, she found his quiet demeanor helped relax her, and they had talked about their scholastic careers and childhoods, books they'd read, both in and out of the muggle world.

It had only been about a week since Draco's birthday and the start of the painting, but already they had settled into a routine that Hermione found herself looking forward to.

This particular afternoon, she had enjoyed her breakfast, morning shower, and empty bed and come down to meet Martin, whom Pansy had already let in and was setting up his things. They had chatted for a bit, and then begun. The day was warmer than usual, and though the Manor was always cool on the inside, the wide windows had been uncovered and the sunny, cloudless sky made her feel hot just to look at it. She had slept well the night before but found herself dozing off as she sat utterly still, her head nodding as she kept waking up to find her posture drooping.

At some point she must have completely fallen asleep, but she was hardly aware of it, only aware of the warmth of the library, the soft music playing on the phonograph, and the muted sound of Martin's brush meeting the canvas.

"My lady?"

A warm hand tapped her shoulder, and Hermione jolted in pain, snapping awake as her ring sent a bolt of pain down the length of her arm.

It had affected Martin too. He cursed aloud and staggered back, staring at her wide-eyed, a lock of hair falling across his face, a spot of paint speckling it. There was smudged charcoal along his jaw, and he still held his paintbrush in his non-dominant hand.

"F-forgive me, my Lady," he stammered, his face pale. His eyes darted toward the door. "I forgot—I didn't mean anything, I only meant to ask you to move your head, but you were asleep."

Hermione stood from the chaise, shaking her head to clear it. She felt dazed, her arm still tingling with the shock. She blinked, swallowed. The hairs on her arms stood on end.

"It's my fault," she said, her voice oddly calm. She gave him an unconvincing smile. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I'm sorry about—" she trailed off, and gestured to her arm.

Martin was staring at her ring, as if he could sense its malevolence. "Did he—" he looked around nervously, swallowing. "Did my Lord do that?"

She nodded and looked away.

At that, he didn't know what to say.

 _Piece by piece, he's starting to see how messed up this relationship is,_ she thought. And it happened every time, that when someone else saw it, it was like seeing through their eyes, being reminded again of what she had been through, but from an outside perspective.

"Let's take a break. May I see the progress?"

Martin gave a small bow. "I would be honored." His eyes lingered on her ring, his face blank.

Hermione hardly noticed as she neared the large canvas. Over the past several days, she had looked and looked at the canvas and seen all the early stages of the painting, from the underlying sketch to the blocking of colors, the beginning and completion of the library behind her.

By now the background was mostly complete. She sucked in a breath as she took it in.

"You have great skill."

Martin flushed. "Thank you, my Lady."

The colors were rich, he'd gotten the lighting just right—they started at noon every day, and he'd explained to her once that he mostly worked on the bookcases and the carpeted floor until the sun began to set, when its golden light began to stream heavily through the windows and cast a warmth all over the library. Then he began to really work, to make sure he captured the colors just right. He had started on her form from the bottom; the wooden gleaming legs of the chaise and then the plush brocaded velvet of the cushion on either side of her, then the folds and silk of her gown appearing as though he'd cut up bits from the actual dress itself and attached them to the canvas. It looked so real she wanted to touch it, to reach out and feel the silk itself, but knowing that the canvas was still wet, she held her hands behind her back, lest impulse take over.

The bare foot of her half-painted self poked out from underneath her skirt. It was about the size of her open hand. She stepped closer to stare at it, at each of her toes painstakingly rendered in such detail—she turned to look at his palette and saw the mess of it; the mixed colors taking up every inch of the wide wooden surface, the brushes still scattered around it, some so fine they might only hold just one short hair.

"Don't your hands or eyes ever hurt, painting such small details?" She asked. "It's incredible." Her eyes were on some of the painted books. He had even included titles, rendered in gold paint.

"From time to time," Martin admitted. "We are taught in school certain stretches and methods of holding our utensils to limit strain and injury. It still happens, if we're not careful."

"And your eyes?"

"I haven't had need of spectacles yet," he said, the corner of his lip lifting. "I suppose one day, I'll have to." He paused. "Your husband invited me to stay for dinner again, when he comes back."

"Really?" She looked at him. "Will you?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "If I may say so, Lady Hermione, I don't much enjoy his presence."

At this she bit back a laugh. "Many would say they feel the same, I'm afraid."

 _I almost forgot what it feels like to banter with someone without malice. Someone who isn't Pansy, anyhow._

"He sent a Healer to my father's home," Martin said. "He is now fully recovered, thanks to him."

"That's good to hear," Hermione said sincerely, though inwardly she wondered why Draco had gone to so much trouble when he hardly even knew him aside from the commission.

 _He did say they've hunted together before._ She frowned.

"If I may be brutally honest, I'm inclined to decline again," Martin said in a whisper. "But I'm sure he would insist."

"I'm sure he would," Hermione said, then added. "Well, a friendly face at dinner would be nice, for once. I would be happy if you joined us."

Martin bowed. "Then it would be my honor, my Lad—Hermione." He looked down at his paint-spattered clothes. "I suppose I'll have to go home and change, as well."

"I think that would be best," Hermione said.

Martin nodded, then glanced sidelong at her as he took off his smock and folded it over his arm. He glanced at his watch and then looked at her, his eyes full of warmth.

"I think that's it for today." He stretched, rubbed at his face with his hand.

Secretly relieved, Hermione smiled. "Until tomorrow, then."

If Draco were there, she would have extended her hand for him to bow over and kiss, but he wasn't, and they were allowed to drop the pretense of titles and decorum.

When he was gone, Hermione crossed her arms and paced around the library, worrying her lip between her teeth.

Pansy and Lucio were still outside. She thought of joining them but decided not to, not knowing the reason why. She wound her way through the rows and rows of bookshelves, her light footsteps the only sound in the room.

 _I should have asked Martin to stay. Just to have someone to talk to._

He was always eager to leave. She didn't blame him, especially after what had happened earlier. She smoothed her hand along her arm, wondering if Draco had known or even sensed that Martin had touched her.

If he knew, he was probably furious—how quickly would he take action? She had to do something. Martin might be in danger, knowing Draco's temperament.

Pansy could relay him a message—Hermione hurried outside, to the back of the manor, scanning the expanse of land for where she and Lucio might have gone, but found nothing but trees and plants swaying in the gentle wind.

 _It'll take me forever to find them, especially without magic._

"Toffee?"

The elf appeared at once, bowing low.

"What does Mistress require?"

"Find my son and Pansy. Please," she added as an afterthought.

"They is left to visit the village, Mistress," Toffee replied. "Master has sent word with permission for them to go."

Hermione frowned. "Why has no one told me?"

"Because I just arrived, sweetheart."

Arms wound around her from behind her and Hermione jumped, feeling Draco's lips nuzzle along her neck.

"Thank you, Toffee, that will be all."

She shivered.

"Very well, Master." Toffee said, and apparated away with a loud _crack_ that reverberated around the library, and they were left alone.

"You're here early," Hermione said.

"Things wrapped up earlier than expected," he said, but he didn't sound pleased.

He stroked her arm, right where Martin had touched her.

Hermione swallowed.

 _So he knows._

"I fell asleep while he was painting," she said. "He was only trying to wake me up. He didn't mean anything, Draco."

"I know he didn't," Draco said. He let her go and came to stand in front of her. "I don't like, however, that he forgot himself and thought he could touch you after the explicit warning I gave him."

"I'm not your property, Draco. He's only a friend."

"That's not what he wants," Draco replied coolly. "I've seen his thoughts. He wants much, much more."

Hermione flushed. "And I'm the one who's leashed."

Draco arched a brow. "I could do it to him, too."

"You can't _own_ and control everyone."

At that, he smiled wickedly. "I could, if I cared. But you're enough for me."

Hermione stared at him suspiciously. "You think I'm attracted to him."

"I'm only taking precautions, sweetheart."

"You're unbelievable," she said, shaking her head.

" _And you_ made a deal, dearest," he said, his eyes going cold. "Remember yourself."

She went quiet, forcing her expression into one of blankness.

She _had_ forgotten herself. It was so easy, when he was such a bastard. Her anger was like a whip, ready to be lashed out. It was hard to reign it in, sometimes.

 _But I'll have to learn to do it if I ever want my magic back._

Her fists unclenched.

Draco had watched her the whole time, his eyes nearly glowing with pride.

"My captive bird," he said softly, brushing her hair from her neck. Hermione closed her eyes and felt the weight of her hair, the heat of it vanish from her shoulder. His hand came up again and thumbed away the neckline of her gown, studded with garnets around the collar. She knew what he sought, and tilted her head so he could get a better look at the old scar his bite had left on her flesh. He stared at it for a long while, never saying a word, and she knew that he liked seeing her dressed in such a deep red, that it reminded him of the blood he took from her. She bore similar scars in other places now, but this was the one he treasured most though she couldn't say why.

"Enchanting, captive little bird," he repeated breathlessly, his voice like the rumbling of the earth before a storm, "whom I dragged from the sky."

His hand curled around her neck now, cupping it, holding her pulse in his palm. Hermione forced herself to stay still.

"And now who sings sweetly in my bed and yet still trembles when I come near."

 _You say this, but it pleases you,_ she thought. _It always has._

And so it was.

 _He's got an ego the size of a Hungarian Horntail,_ she thought with distaste. _Remember you put this leash on me since you couldn't control me otherwise. You were afraid I'm stronger than you. Once this ring comes off, husband, I'll wipe you off this earth._

Still, perhaps stoking that ego now and then might work to her advantage.

 _If he didn't play fair from the beginning, then neither will I._

"Any creature would shake when a hunter approaches," she said quietly. "It would be unnatural for me to welcome your proximity when I know you could very well eat me if you chose."

"That I have, and will, _often_ ," he said with a half smile. "Only remember that you agreed to behave, Hermione. I don't mind your temper so much when it's only you and I, but when it's in front of others, the consequences will be harsh. I expect you to keep to it for your own sake."

He knew the look of bitterness on her face, and try as she might she could not conceal it.

"I know," was her stiff answer.

"Then greet your Lord husband as you should," he said, his voice strong like the crack of a tree trunk splitting in half, cutting into her heart. Hermione had no choice but to obey.

He had dropped his arms from around her—Hermione reached upwards to bend his head closer to hers and before she could give it any more thought she pressed his mouth to hers, not gently, just as she knew he wanted it. His lips were cold and pliant but still—she teased his tongue with hers, wove her

fingers through his hair, pressed her breasts against him. She let her teeth scrape against his lips—his hot breath rushed over her.

He received it like a king, remaining cool and appearing unaffected, but she felt him shudder under her touch, his breath coming faster. His hands remained frozen at his side, his eyes half closed, watching her through a dazed film in his eyes. Hermione was running out of breath again, she made to break away but he wrenched her back quite suddenly, his nails forming red crescents on her skin—she gasped and he gave her that second to draw breath before his hands grabbed her by the cheeks and he crushed their mouths together in a rough kiss.

As always, regardless of their agreement, there was the instinct to pull away, which she struggled against now. Having sensed it, he decided he wouldn't fault her for it, and that he rather liked it, as it showed her obedience. Draco smiled into the kiss, gave enough pressure to her lips to let her know he wanted her to open them, and she did, to his delight. He ignored the impulse to bite down on her tongue, and savored her taste like the richest, bitterest wine as he swept his tongue against hers. Her cheeks were flushed and pressed between his hands, his kiss sucked little whimpers from her. He bit her lip and she jerked against him, a muffled moan of pain escaping her throat, and he broke the kiss.

Face prettily flushed, hair askew and breathing hard, his prize took a moment to recover. Her warm eyes were unfocused, struggling with accusation, and Draco felt proud to look at her and know she was his.

She sensed his smugness and a flash of anger stole through her, which she had to ignore. Once there would have been hatred in her eyes, disgust too, but now there was only complacency. A hint of desire, too, unless he'd imagined it. Any hatred she surely felt was locked deep inside, and all for the better, he thought.

"Very good, kitten," he said, a curve to his lips.

She straightened and met his gaze.

"I'm glad to have pleased you, my Lord," she said woodenly, her ripened lips catching his fancy so much that he wanted to kiss her again just to bite them and make them redder, make her bleed. She knew his thought, and her eyes looked to the floor, a hint of fear and resentment in the tight line of her jaw.

Draco reached for her again and this time she stepped forth. He stood there holding her for a moment without speaking, her head nestled against his chest. His hand found her neck and his finger stroked her pulse point softly, and Hermione realized he was telling her to relax. Slowly, she allowed her limbs to thaw from their tense state. His cock was rigid in his pants—she felt it pressing against her and wondered if he would alleviate his desire then and there. Dread crawled over her skin.

"What would I be without my darling bird?" he asked softly. "How would I live had I never met you or even took you for my own?"

"You would still be a monster," she said, and his hand tightened around her neck but she knew he was not really angered by her comment.

He smiled. "McLaggen only wanted your body. With Potter, you would have led a normal, boring, unfulfilling life. Marriage, children, retirement, death. What could he give you that I can't give you tenfold?"

Hermione went still. "Don't say his name."

"You deserve more than what he could ever give you," Draco hissed. " _I_ married you. _I_ gave you a child. Everything that is mine is yours. We could hold the world in our hands if we wanted to. No one else could have given you that. Not even Potter, the _Chosen One_." He spat out the last two words, as if they were vile. "He was _ordained._ He was advanced, wasn't he? He survived through so much for so long, but what did he do with his power? His connections? Nothing. He was happy to sit back and let things happen. He could have made himself stronger. He could have made himself into something great. But he was too stupid and lazy to realize that, and he was too weak to protect you—I made sure he knew that before I cut him down."

"I never asked for any of what you've given me, you know that." She closed her eyes so she wouldn't see his expression turn to anger as she spoke. "Did it ever occur to you that normalcy was what I wanted?"

He kissed her deeply, and reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

 _He's trying to provoke me. It's working._ She could feel the threads of her temper fraying again.

"Liar." His hands gripped her arms tightly. "You're too ambitious to have settled for him."

Her eyes flared with rage. "I _loved_ him."

Swiftly, he backed her into a wall and pressed her to it hard enough to make her gasp, her back smarting with pain. She struggled and he gave her throat a warning squeeze.

Her breathing was quick, her eyes staring into his insolently, as if daring him to hit her.

"Who do you belong to?" he asked, his voice low and sharp.

She took in a juddering breath. "You."

He reached down and cupped her vulva roughly with his hand through her thin gown.

"Who fucks you every night until you're sore or screaming?"

A furious blush overtook her face. "You."

"Who gave you everything you have now?"

Her lip curled. "You."

"Now tell me again who it is you love."

"I love you, my Lord," she said robotically, after allowing herself a tiny pause, that one second of precious rebellion. "Only you."

Draco's face was so close to hers they shared breaths. She could see every marking and ripple in his pale irises. Her heart pounded viciously.

"I don't care that it's a lie," he said, after a moment, "so long as you never forget it."

She nodded, shaking in anger.

"You would have grown bored with Potter," he said, watching hate flare in her eyes before it was gutted by that empty complacency again, so as not to stoke his ire further. "He had no aspirations. He would have settled into anonymity after killing Voldemort. It was him that wanted a normal life, not you. You and I were made for a greatness he'll never know."

He reached forward to wipe at her tears gently. "You deserve an equal. Monster I may be, but I got what I wanted, and he's dead."

Hermione met his icy stare. "Even if my life was to be decided in that way, you and I know well that you didn't play fair."

He chuckled—Hermione shivered. "I couldn't risk losing to someone unworthy of you."

"And you think you're worthy."

Draco tipped her chin up to meet her eyes.

"I've proved I am."

He took a step away, and finally free from being pressed against the wall, Hermione followed suit, knowing it could only incur a more thorough punishment if she left the room, even if it was all she wanted to do.

"Potter couldn't hope to control you as I do," he said. "If he was such as you require then you would be with him now and you'd never have landed in my bed and become my wife in the same night. McLaggen wasn't worth your spit, let alone mine, but I killed him because he was insistent, and dared try to claim what I had already claimed and marked, for that matter."

"Harry _never_ would have wanted to control me," she said through grit teeth. "He never would have locked and chained me up like this, like I'm some sort of helpless animal."

 _Or feral,_ a voice whispered inside her.

Hermione shut her eyes tight as he pressed his thumb into the scars on the crook of her voice had gone rougher than gravel. Every word shook her heart. Her lungs felt weaker the tighter he held her.

"I've killed for you. You've already killed me. Despite my cages you've managed to break free more than once. I've not been the perfect husband nor you the perfect wife but we complement each other in our hates and our lusts. You ensnared me, little bird, and I thought it only fair to make sure you could never take it back. You are the only witch who could ever be worthy of me and so you are my bride."

Hermione had heard some of this before. The other parts made her skin crawl. Draco felt this and drew closer to her.

Before she was able to control herself, her arms made to tear out of his grip. Draco reprimanded her swiftly—he whirled her around. Her back collided against his front. He'd used such force, Hermione gasped and stumbled. His hand came up to cup her jaw and forced her to tilt her head back and lean against his chest with her neck exposed to the cold air.

"Fear me," he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing against the soft thicket of curls at the nape of her neck. She was already shaking; both in fear and anger. Sweat welled up at her temples. He licked her cold cheek where the flush from their earlier kiss had fled. She barely repressed her flinch. "Hate me, so be it. Love me. Give me your will. I am yours and you are mine."

"I-" she swallowed; he felt it in his palm, paired with her pounding heart. He gripped her tighter.

She began to squirm against him, her ass unintentionally pushing against his groin, and his mouth curved into a smile.

"Don't fly from me, little bird. The more you beat your wings against me the tighter I hold you, haven't you learned by now? Your heart acknowledges your fear—never ignore it. Think ill thoughts of me, curse me as I make love to you, look at me through cold eyes and wish me dead, but never hide that fear from me. It is mine, and you have no right to keep it from me."

Hermione struggled harder. This was a sick game, one she was being forced to play.

"Let me go."

 _He never asked if I wanted to._

"It will take you time, sweetheart, I know it. I treasure anything you give me, even if I have to steal it from you. Be cold, be warm, I want everything that is you. I will be your servant just as you are mine. For you only," his hand left her rapid pulse, reached her mouth and traced the hollow of her throat. "I'm weak only for you. Therein lies your power."

Hermione closed her eyes.

His hand stroked her neck. He seemed content to stand there as they were; her neck still exposed and caught in his hand, bodies pressed close, his face buried into the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. Hermione, not knowing what to do, took his hand away from her throat, and kissed it. That pleased him immensely, and he let her go at last.

He adjusted his robes, smoothing them where they had become wrinkled during their interaction. Hermione rubbed at the back of her neck, where she could feel the ghost of his breath still hovering there.

"I want you to become more involved in my court."

Now _that_ was a first. Hermione frowned.

"Why?"

"You're my wife, that's why. I want you by my side."

Lording over that group of vile, insidious people with Draco…she fought the urge to shudder.

"You said you didn't want to be kept in the dark anymore," he reminded her. "Take my hand, and I'll show you."

He extended his arm toward her. Hermione stared at him shrewdly, but his face was blank.

After another moment, she sighed.

She took his hand.

"Show me."

He grasped her hand tightly, gave her a level look. His other hand came up and tapped her on the hollow of her collarbone. A heavy, black hooded cloak materialized onto Hermione, a thick clasp securing itself over the spot he had just touched.

"We're going to apparate."

Immediately her insides began to twist.

"Where are we going?"

His expression was unreadable. "You'll see. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

He gripped her tight with his other arm, and turned on the spot.

They landed hard, but Draco supported her as she staggered.

It was humid and drizzling, wherever they were, but none of the rain touched them. An invisible shield surrounded them and she watched, intrigued, as the droplets of rain hit and slid off the bubble he had cast around them.

"Where are we?"

Draco's hands slid down to her waist, holding her gently. "You know."

She frowned at that, and stared intently at the green, mountainous landscape. It was beautiful.

 _And too familiar…_

Her hands had gone cold, even though it was warm and dry inside their bubble shield.

That tree-line, those distant hills…

Her eyes travelled south, to the lake just beyond, almost hidden by thick forestry.

Tears welled in her eyes, so thick she could hardly see. She blinked hard and swallowed.

Draco's hand stroked her.

She turned, seeking the castle which she'd considered a second home.

At the sight of it, she let loose a strangled sob, and slid out of Draco's hold, falling to her knees.

"No…"

She felt him crouch beside her, placing his hand on her back. He rubbed it soothingly, his other hand warm on her shoulder. She shook with emotion, hiding her face in her hands, leaning forward while Draco held onto her.

They were a good distance away, and the site of their focus appeared on a smaller scale, but even from that distance, Hermione could see everything.

Hogwarts lay in ruins. The roofs were completely gone, so many walls crumbled, others with huge, gaping walls blasted into them, the top floors all sunken and bashed in by some extreme force. Windows had been blown out; even the courtyard had not been spared. The Quidditch field was gone entirely—she wouldn't have been surprised if it had been burned to the ground. Since the last battle that had taken place there, it had never been rebuilt, and lay in neglect, in piles of rubble. The Gryffindor towers had fallen, their bases the only parts that remained, looking very much like melted candles that were down to their last days. There, she, Harry, and Ron had become close friends, there, they had celebrated the winning of House Cups, Quidditch wins…there, they had slept in the Common Rooms, too tired to trudge up the stairs to their dormitories, they had argued over assignments and snuck food, and talked to Dobby and discussed their problems.

It all felt like it had been decades ago, even centuries, though it had been less than ten years. Looking down at it now, remembering everything that had taken place there, made her feel older than she was.

And it was gone.

The Great Hall, the classrooms, the _library…_

Of everything that had changed since she had been taken, this was the _one_ thing she'd expected—no, _hoped_ to stay the same.

Now she realized how foolish that had been, and how naive she had been all this time.

The only thing that had not changed in all those years was Draco.

The sobs wrenched themselves from her without warning, leaving her gasping and her nose running.

It had been so long…it shouldn't have affected her so deeply. All this time she'd stuck to the naive thought that it had been fine, just fine. That castle had withstood so much…apparently the war had been the final straw.

She cried for a long time. The whole time, she expected Draco to lose patience with her and drag her back up and back home. The rain kept falling and Draco stayed there crouched on the ground with her, consoling her, murmuring in her ear, but she heard none of it.

When the tears subsided she sniffled loudly, wiped at her eyes with her hands, and took a deep breath. Her legs were falling asleep underneath her and she was cold despite the cloak. She shook her head.

"I've dreamed of coming back here," she said, her voice raspy and drained. "I wanted it so badly…but not like this."

 _Not as someone's property._ _As a free woman, to finish my education. To say hello to people I haven't seen in years. To live my life again._

Draco sighed. "I'm sorry."

" _You did this."_ She turned to face him and pushed him roughly. "I knew it. Was killing Harry not enough? Get away from me."

She tried to push him further away when Draco came closer, grabbing her wrists.

"Let me _go!_ "

"You're allowed to grieve, Hermione," he said calmly, "but I had nothing to do with this. This was all Voldemort's doing."

She paused, staring at him in confusion.

"How," she demanded, her voice flat.

"He didn't know Potter wasn't in the castle. It had been evacuated by the Order, but he didn't know. He was tired of Potter hiding. He had the giants tear it down, and when they found nothing, he did the rest."

She looked at the ruins, her heartbreak written clearly on her face. Draco felt his heart stir.

"I'm going to rebuild it," he said, and she stared at him, her eyes incredulous, suspicion hiding beneath.

"For what?" She asked bitterly, a moment after. "So you and your followers can take over it?"

"I don't know yet," he said, and she scoffed.

"I want to go to it," she demanded. "Take me down there."

They apparated directly into the ruins. Draco tucked Hermione's hand into his bent arm and began to walk her around the dust and rubble. Huge slabs of stone and columns, large pieces of wood scattered the floor. Splintered furniture littered the ground everywhere. Glass crunched under their feet.

Hermione pressed her lips together, looking around, trying to discern what had once been amongst the remains.

"I know how much it meant to you," he said, squeezing her hand. "I'm sorry."

Hermione didn't reply to that. It had been years, and the ruins had probably been picked clean since, but fear of finding a corpse crushed under the debris gripped her. She tried to push it away, and tried to imagine what it had been like in the castle's final moments before being torn down like it was made of sand.

"After Potter killed Voldemort, and his followers were put in Azkaban, I knew I was powerful enough to kill him, but I bided my time," Draco began. "By then I had decided I wanted a child from you, and wanted to make sure my plans were foolproof. I broke Azkaban open, and took my former master's followers, and recruited more. I wanted Potter and his Order to believe that you and I had faded away somewhere, that we were completely out of reach, to get them off our trail for a while. I let them into our old Manor, to distract them while we went farther away. Let that guilt tear them apart while I prepared for battle." He stroked her hair. "They tried so hard to find you, little bird, but they didn't come in time."

"I infiltrated the school," he continued, his pale eyes sweeping slowly across the landscape. "It was during a holiday break, so there weren't many people there. I knew the second I stepped into these grounds they would come with their wands drawn, and they did. I knew they wouldn't be prepared. They hadn't expected me to choose this place for another battle, only a year after the last one. Potter challenged me. He said he'd get you back at any cost." Draco let out a laugh. "He attacked and then evaded me, the coward. He's good at dueling, but in the end, you saw what happened. You got there just in time."

Hermione tilted her head up to the sky, silently willing her tears not to fall.

"The moment they saw him go down, a good number of the fighters on their side ran off. We captured a few of them for information and killed the rest. I spared Longbottom only because of your interference. The Weasley girl and most of her brothers died, including the one you were closest to. I saw the half-giant Hagrid die at the hands of five Death Eaters. His brute dog went next. Everything was a blur."

"What happened to Neville after?" She asked, afraid of the answer.

"My spies tracked him as he fled to America with Lovegood," he said dismissively. "Last I heard, they went to South America, but I have reason to believe he came back to England five months ago."

At this Hermione stiffened.

"He's still looking for you," Draco said, turning to give Hermione an empty, mocking smile. "What devotion."

Hermione shook her head, wanting his words to stop.

"He's the reason we've been moving so frequently," Draco said. "I know you'd wondered why. They found a way to track me for a brief period—clever, but I found a way around it. We won't be moving again for some time."

He sounded so sure. Hermione wanted to tear out his throat.

There was one of the House hourglasses. It's large oak frame was on the floor, huge jagged glass shards lying around them. Draco steered her around it. She couldn't tell which house it had belonged to. All the gems that had once been inside it were long gone, taken by scavengers, likely.

"He and Lovegood have been building up a new resistance. A small one, but they're gathering resources, too. I haven't been able to find their hideout, but my spies have been working on that for some time. They keep coming here to look for something. I don't know what they want, but I put new wards around here so I can get to it, first."

Hermione took in a deep breath.

"What do you think it is?"

Draco shook his head. "Probably some relic Potter left behind. They probably think it can help them defeat me."

Hermione frowned. "What sort of relic?"

"I'm not sure. His wand, perhaps, or something else of personal value to him." He stepped around a large slab of stone. "Curiously, his wand did go missing right after I killed him. I was too distracted with you breaking into the battlefield to notice until it was too late."

"What would they even do with a relic?" Hermione asked.

Draco shook his head again, a snort of contempt coming from him. "I think they want to resurrect him."

The sound of the rain, the sound of his voice faded away. A loud buzzing filled her ears, and she stopped in her tracks, her face going white.

 _Is it possible? How?_

"Don't worry, little bird," he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest, fixing her with a hard stare. "It's _extremely_ unlikely that they'll be able to manage it. Not without his blood, anyhow, and I know for certain they'll never get hold of it."

"How…"

"How do I know?" Draco grinned. "I kept his corpse. Burned it myself, but before that, I took his blood. Every last drop of it. I had his body strung up in our dungeon for days, to make sure I got it all. I debated letting you come down to say goodbye, but I didn't think you would want to. Not like that."

 _"You don't get to make decisions for me!"_ She hissed, so sharp her teeth clicked together painfully. "Not anymore!"

"Of course," he said, his eyes gleaming. "But I reserve judgement for when I know what will make for a better outcome."

"Oh, god—" Hermione beat her elbow against the bubble. "Let me out, I'm going to be sick."

He motioned with his hand and at once the bubble was gone and the rain pelted them in full, falling cold and fast. Neither cared.

Hermione leaned over a pile of debris and retched, clutching her stomach. Tears blurred her vision.

"I destroyed most of it, the blood," he continued obliviously from behind her. His hand was on her back again, stroking to comfort, but she felt anything but comforted, shivering violently under his hand, wishing she had a dagger or that she could pick up one of the many heavy stones that lay around to smash his head in with.

"I kept just enough, though. A sort of trophy, if you will."

When she had finished, she wiped her mouth and let herself sink slowly down to the floor, wiping at her mouth and eyes. Draco spelled away the sick, and muttered another spell to clean her face. She sat limp against a pile of large rocks, not caring that it was uncomfortable. Draco came forward and knelt in front of her.

"You wanted to know," he reminded her gently. Hermione refused to look at him, but she nodded.

He was right. She had spent too long a time in the dark over the fates of her friends, of the world at hand. She supposed she had wanted to shield herself from more sorrow, but she had known there would be casualties. She regretted ever having asked.

 _Forgive me, Harry._

Ron was gone. Ginny was gone. Who else? She couldn't bear to ask. She would find out in time. This was already too much grief for one day. She could feel it tearing her in two, right down the middle.

He had killed her friends and family. He might not have been directly responsible for the destruction of Hogwarts, but he could have done _something_ to prevent it.

And this whole time, she had done nothing else but warm his bed. Unwilling it may have been, but what else had she done?

 _All this time, I should have been doing something more._

Self-hatred bloomed inside her, crawling up her spine, even as another voice spoke up within her.

 _You did what you could. Don't torture yourself. He's had you so restrained, what else_ ** _could_** _you have done? You found ways to escape. You saw Harry and the Weasleys one last time and gave them all the information you could. You saved Neville's life. If you hadn't, there wouldn't be a growing rebellion now. There's still hope, small though it might be. There was only so much you could do, considering what you were facing within these walls._

A minute passed, and then another, as she felt her strength return. Draco waited patiently. He reached out and brushed the wetness from her cheek with a finger. She was shivering, pale, wet. Drops of rain dripped from her nose and trickled down her lips. Inside, her heart ached fiercely. Hermione finally met his eyes.

Detached concern was etched across his face. His hair was wet through with the rain, and plastered to his head, but he looked beautiful as ever. He blinked the rain from his eyes. He wiped the tears from the other side of her face.

"Is that enough for today?" He asked quietly.

Hermione tilted her head back and took a deep breath.

"No," she said. It took effort to speak. "I want to know everything."

Draco had never shown himself to be a political man, like his father, but as he went on, he revealed he had ties to everywhere and everyone. They had been gained through either bribery, a genuine personal connection, or blackmail. Hermione found herself surprised to hear none of this.

"When I need a favor, they're always more than willing to oblige," he said matter of factly as they continued to walk, Hermione pale and withdrawn, he, looking and feeling as though he was taking a normal promenade with his wife. "I don't involve myself too heavily in their doings unless it's something that affects us."

"Like what?" Her voice was dead. All emotion had left her, for the time being. She felt empty. Hollow.

 _But my body feels as heavy as if it were filled with cement._

Like the rain and his words had flushed the energy from her body.

Draco thought for a moment. "There was an inquiry at the Ministry some years back, to look into falsified and incorrect documents, and have them investigated. There's nothing wrong with our marriage certificate, but seeing as it doesn't bear your signature, I had that fixed and tucked away from prying eyes. The Minister himself won't be able to touch it, if under threat of death or impeachment."

"You're very thorough."

"I have to be."

He raised the bubble back around them, and instantly they were dry and warm again. He took Hermione's arm carefully and helped her up.

"Let's go home," he said, stroking her cheek.

* * *

When they Apparated into their bedroom, the bubble burst with a quiet _pop_ , and Draco undid the clasp on her cloak, sliding it off her shoulders. Hermione stood there, unresponsive and numb.

"Frankly speaking," he said softly, "I am more powerful that the Minister. He is independent, but if I strolled into his office tomorrow morning and told him to execute half the magical community, he'd do it without asking questions." He gave her a pointed sidelong glance. "Keep that in mind if you're ever seeking anyone to help you."

He rubbed his hands along her arms, as if sensing her numbness. Hermione stared through him. Draco turned her around and undid the zipper of her gown, helped her out of her shoes, and when she was nude, he pulled the covers back from the bed and eased her into it. She turned on her side, hugging herself, facing away from him.

"Voldemort was weak," he said. "He only needed one Horcrux to gain immortality. Because of his fear and greed, he made seven, and that took so much of his power. He was still powerful, but not as much as before he'd tried to kill Potter as an infant. I'm no fool. I won't make seven."

Goosebumps erupted over Hermione's skin.

She felt him climb into bed behind her, as nude as she was. His arms wrapped around her. She felt his erection pressing against her. She closed her eyes briefly.

 _Harry, forgive me._

After everything she had heard that day, the absolute _last_ thing she wanted was to fuck the man that had caused her so much pain, but if she was going to end this all, she couldn't do it without her magic.

 _If I want to get free, I have to start acting as soon as possible. No matter how hard it might be._

She turned around with some difficulty, and took his length in her hand, and began to stroke.

Draco groaned softly, lying flat on his back.

Hermione brought herself closer to him, used her other hand to play with his sac.

 _Squeeze it until he begs for mercy. Until it bursts and bleeds._

He chuckled, pushing his hips into her hand.

"If you wanted your magic back this badly," he said his hand traveling down between her thighs, "you should have just done all this from the beginning. It's not so bad, is it."

He curled his fingers inside her for emphasis. Hermione wanted to claw his eyes out.

She let him go abruptly, pushing his hand from her thighs and turned away again to the far side of the bad, drawing the covers up to cover herself.

"If you wanted affection so badly, you should have fucked your mother rather than rape me," she retorted, the words coming from her mouth before she'd even had time to stop and censor herself.

She regretted them immediately.

 _This is going to set me back to square one,_ she thought, hear heart racing, waiting for his retaliation, for his hand to grip her throat, for his slap, anything. His hand had paused it's ministrations inside her, and he had gone still.

She waited, filled with dread.

To her shock, he laughed instead.

* * *

A/N: Please review!


	6. The Last Bastions

**Wanted to spoil you lot with a new update! This is is longer than normal, so please expect a wait for the next update.**

 **Six.**

The next morning Hermione rose early before Draco and readied herself quickly. He was deep asleep, an arm still outstretched onto her side of the bed where it had been draped over her as she had slept, holding her closely to his body.

She threw on a simple black dress and tugged boots on underneath it. Draco liked her to wear more formal shoes when in the Manor, but more often than not she was barefoot unless they had company. Still, where she would be going today she needed something more durable. She tugged them on and laced them up, frowning at the style. When she had asked Draco for them, he had obliged, though he had insisted for something more reflective of her status as a Lady. She'd held her ground, but even though she'd gotten her those plain, sturdy boots, he had added a small heel to them that defeated the purpose.

She braided her hair quickly and when done, approached the bed. She pushed Draco's legs out of the way so she could sit down. This roused him and he sat up, wincing at the bright light coming in from the uncovered windows. He pushed his hair from his face, sighing.

When he had gathered his wits his eyes cleared and he looked her up and down, noting her attire. His lips curved upwards with amusement and he met her eye, raising a brow.

"And where are you going?" He purred.

He'd spent so much time trying to teach her how to act like a lady, while she had been pregnant with Lucio.

 _'_ _You shouldn't have to say 'please'. You shouldn't be afraid to take what you want, or demand it from others. They are loyal, and will gladly give you anything you ask.'_

 _'_ _Threats_ ** _do_** _help now and then.'_

 _'_ _Speak firmly. Look them all in the eye and don't waver. Let them know you fear no one. No one but me.'_

So many others…she hadn't always paid attention, but whenever she was in the presence of his court, she obeyed, not wanting them to see her weakness, even though it was blatantly displayed any time Draco had her at his side. She held no power.

 _'_ _But you are my Lady and my wife, and they love and fear you as much as they do me.'_

Was he angry over her comment from the night before? He had done nothing but laugh, and it was unsettling, to say the least. She fought the urge to bite her lip, wondering if he was simply biding his time to punish her. In the past, he likely would have Cruicio'd her again, as he had done once, or beaten her black and blue. It made her almost physically ill to remember that, to remember that odd gap in her memory after the Cruciatus incident, and wanting so badly to ask what had happened, but ultimately realizing it was probably too horrific, and she was better off not knowing.

He had deeply loved his mother—when she had passed and it had affected him so badly, it had struck her then to remember how human he was still, despite the things he did to her.

But now…

That laugh. So callous, yet genuine. He had fallen asleep shortly after, like it hadn't meant a thing to him but amuse him.

Well, whatever might come, it was never good, and she wasn't going to poke the fire with kindle, so to speak. She would pretend it never happened, and hoped he would, too.

Hermione squared her shoulders and kept her face still like stone, so that he would know she would not accept a refusal.

"You're going to show me where my friends are buried. I want to pay my respects."

At this he nodded, as if he had expected it.

"Pansy will take you," he said. "I have business to attend to, unless you'd rather I go with you."

An emphatic _'no'_ almost slipped from her lips, but she caught it in time.

"That would be a bad idea," was all she said, but her voice was clipped.

He had expected her declining of his offer, but was surprised by her keeping herself in check, after her outburst from the night before. That had pricked at him, at first, but he had laughed, genuinely delighted to feel and hear that rage simmering inside her.

It seemed uncontrollable at times, for her. He found that extremely interesting. Certain questions he'd had brewing in the back of his mind for some years resurfaced. His eyes fixed on her ring.

Could it be?

She had always had fangs. That was one of the reasons he had fallen for her. Lately, they were growing sharper.

It was incredible, watching her transformation. All thanks to that rage.

 _Let it burn you, my love. Let it love you. Forge it into a weapon. Wield it like a sword._

She was still standing, wavering slightly though she tried to stand as still as possible, growing more nervous as she awaited his response.

 _Perhaps, with some fine-tuning, I can use that to my advantage,_ he thought. _I'll make a proper Queen of you, wife._

"As you wish, my Lady," he said at last.

She seemed a little uneasy at having such little opposition, but having got what she wanted, was not fool enough to linger in case he changed his mind.

"Thank you, my Lord."

He got up and wrapped his arm around her, pressing her against him. His lips pressed against hers gently, their foreheads touching. She closed her eyes.

"Be quick," he said, as he pulled away. "Martin will be waiting for you at the usual time."

"I'll take as long as I damn please," Hermione said.

Again, contrary to her expectation, he smiled.

"Make sure you're home before dinner, then."

Pansy was waiting outside the bedroom, already dressed in her gilded black robes.

 _A mark of servitude and loyalty to him._ Pansy rarely wore anything else. Perhaps that was a requirement in her contract with Draco. It was only when Draco was away from the Manor that she donned lighter colors.

"Good morning, my Lady," Pansy said, bowing, knowing Draco could hear them from inside the bedroom.

"Good morning, Pansy," Hermione said. "How is Lucio?"

"Still asleep. Shall I wake him, my Lady?"

"No," Hermione said. "Let him rest. I'll see him later."

They went down to the foyer. Draco was able to Apparate from anywhere inside the house, but for Pansy, she was only allowed to Apparate from the one designated room.

"You know where they're buried?" Hermione asked.

Pansy fastened her own cloak around her neck. "Yes. Draco sent me the information just now." In her hand, a little note lay slightly crumpled. She closed her fist, and it vanished. She looked at Hermione.

"Are you ready, my Lady?" She offered her arm for Hermione to take.

Hermione stepped in closer, legs slightly unsteady. "Yes."

* * *

They landed just outside the Burrow.

Remarkably, it was mostly intact, although Hermione suspected it had been uninhabited for many years now. The lawn was overrun and waist-high. Some of the windows were open, and just thinking about how long they had been that way, letting in the elements over time to destroy and wear at everything inside made her heart sink. There was a desolate look to the place that made her shudder to remember all the happy times she had spent there once.

 _This was a home, once. Another life ago._

It was so quiet. She half expected to hear Ron shouting from somewhere within the house the longer she looked at it, or hear the twins' laughter, or smell some of Mrs. Weasley's delicious cooking.

But the house was still and silent.

Her body shook.

Pansy touched her shoulder.

"Should I raise a shield, if you're too cold?" Pansy asked.

"I'm not cold," Hermione said quietly. "Just…nervous."

Pansy's hand squeezed hers.

"Their bodies were burned after the battle by Draco and his followers," Pansy said softly. "Those on Potter's side who survived remembered those who'd been killed, and made graves for them, even if they didn't have their bodies."

"Who else was killed?" Hermione asked.

"I'm not sure," Pansy said. "I wasn't there, I was abroad. Draco offered me to work for him so I came back well after it was over, just as you two had moved here with baby Lucio. I'm still finding out who died, years later. There were so many…"

Hermione felt oddly comforted by that. So she wasn't the only one who was so out of the loop.

"They're in the garden," Pansy said, nodding in that direction. "People rarely come here, so we're not likely to be disturbed by anyone. Regardless, you've been disguised already."

Hermione nodded absently and touched her face, feeling the changed facial features that Draco's wards had given her for the trip.

 _Very thorough._

"Do you want to be alone?" Pansy asked.

"Yes, please."

Pansy squeezed her hand. "I'll keep lookout from here. Call for me if you need anything, or once you're ready to leave."

The garden had run wild and rampant with neglect. Flowers had died and shrubs had grown shaggy; weeds had sprouted everywhere. Hermione closed the door of the tall wooden fence behind her and stepped in, her breath a suspended cloud in her throat.

It was like a forest had exploded in their contained garden over time. Trees stood where there never had been any before. A soft wind rustled through, but as she listened close, not a single bird or creature appeared to inhabit the space.

 _It's only been a few years. Those kinds of trees don't grow to maturity that quickly. Who did this?_

She looked around suspiciously.

 _Where are the graves?_

She walked around slowly, cautiously picking her way through. There had been a shed to the far left once, but it was either obscured by the trees or it had been torn down.

 _Something isn't right._

She got the strangest feeling, the farther she got. Like the forest expanded the deeper she went in. Like the Weasley's garden had been enchanted to conceal something.

 _But why can I see it?_

She looked back, and couldn't find the wall of the wooden fence anymore. Pansy was waiting just outside it for her call.

 _Does she know? Can she sense it? Can she see it? Can she even see me?_

Her pulse was picking up speed.

Not knowing why, she reached up to touch her face, and froze.

Draco's disguising spell had gone away. The rounder cheeks and Romanesque nose were gone, her own familiar features returned.

 _What's happening?_

Instinct prodded her to turn back and leave at once. But she wasn't afraid—not entirely.

She pressed forward, heart in throat, sorely missing her wand. Even if she couldn't use magic, it would have been comforting just to hold it at her side.

It was so quiet. Peaceful. She found herself wondering if Draco had set this up before her arrival as some sort of cruel trick.

 _I wouldn't put it past him._

It might have been an hour later. It could have happened in seconds.

She took a turn somewhere and a clearing opened up into view, where previously there had been nothing, no path to indicate anything. Hermione could see headstones. She hesitated, drawing her cloak around herself for warmth, took a breath, and advanced.

The headstones were smallish, made out of plain stone. She supposed in the mess after the battle, no one had wanted to stick around long enough for fear of being found by Draco's rabid followers.

They didn't say much—just names and years. Some only had names.

 _Padma Patil. Parvati Patil. Lavender Brown. Michael Corner. Justin Finch-Fletchley._

Tears welled in her eyes. She hugged herself and moved on.

 _Minerva McGonagall._

 _Rubeus Hagrid._

 _Cho Chang._

 _Ginny Weasley._

 _George Weasley._

 _Molly Weasley._

 _Arthur Weasley._

 _Bill Weasley._

 _Fleur Weasley._

 _Remus Lupin._

And the last one…

 _Harry Potter._

Hermione, unable to stifle the tears any longer, let them fall freely. They rolled down her cheeks, while she huddled close to Harry's headstone and sat against it, holding herself so tightly for fear of falling apart at last within this strange, enchanted place.

Her hand pressed against the smooth, cool stone and she pressed her cheek against it, weeping quietly as if it might let her remember what his kiss had felt like, for time and Draco's insistent ardor had edged that from her memory.

She kissed the stone. "I'm so sorry it took me all this time to find you."

Her body shuddered with her sobs, wrenching itself in grief.

They had all died trying to take Draco down. They had tried so hard to find and rescue her. She had never been able to say thank you, or even goodbye, and now they were long gone.

Her family…gone. Nothing but empty graves and ashes, somewhere. Names to be uttered on Draco's cruel tongue as markers of conquest, as tools to inflict pain, like a most ancient curse.

They had looked for her when she had been missing. When she had escaped, they had helped her heal. They had loved her and she them. And there was the hand that had been dealt to them in return.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm so sorry…"

Her cry was short—she supposed she had exhausted her supply of tears the day before, and she was glad. She had cried enough. She simply lay there against Harry's headstone, utterly spent and thinking of what life might have been like if things had gone a different route. If none of those headstones existed—at least, not yet. If she had been smart enough to not get herself kidnapped.

She went to each grave individually, smoothing her hand along their tops, offering her grief as a sort of recompense for what she had not been able to do for them. That, and a promise.

 ** _He_** _won't get a grave._

She lingered again at Harry's.

"I still love you," she said softly. The breeze ruffled her hair. "I always will."

She straightened and sucked in a breath. Her throat was sticky and sore from all the crying over the past two days.

"I'll be back," she said, pulling her hood over her head, and turned to leave.

The moment she had turned her back, she felt a shift in the air around her. It was too late as she turned to see what it was. Something knocked her to the ground, and her hood fell further over her face, obscuring her head entirely. She shook her head like an animal, twisting, trying to get it off, barely managing to uncover one eye. Her legs and hands were bound together. A gag forced its way into her mouth and she lay on her side, breathing rapidly, heart racing, eyes wide and scanning the area for the intruder.

There—to the far right—

A cloaked figure approached, wand drawn.

Draco. She'd been right.

 _Why bother going to all these lengths?_

Perhaps he'd truly been angered by her insult from the night before, and had plotted for revenge.

The figure strode toward her with intent.

Panicking, Hermione tried to wriggle away, fighting against her restraints.

The figure stopped in front of her and crouched, grasping the hood of her cloak and pulling it off entirely.

Hermione winced, and stared up at the concealed face of her captor, expecting Draco's cold laugh to come next.

"I thought it might be you… I didn't actually expect it to…" came a familiar female voice, slightly breathless, and full of relief.

Hermione frowned.

The figure reached up slowly to pull off their hood. Hermione recoiled, but her hood was pulled off, and Hermione stared up in shock at Luna Lovegood.

She was much thinner than Hermione remembered; her face lovely, but a little gaunt. There were those large and bright blue eyes, that long, silvery blonde hair, almost the same color as Draco's. Her radish earrings and bottlecap necklace were long gone. She beamed at Hermione, who stared at her slack-jawed.

"Oh! I'm sorry. Here," Luna said. She pointed her wand at Hermione. "Relashio."

Hermione scuttled back at once and stood, her face pale.

"Prove it," she said. "Prove to me you're not in disguise."

 _I've been fooled too many times before…_

Luna's smile faltered. "Well, Neville and I put spells on this place to cancel out and glamour or disguise spells. Too many enemies were coming in here to poke around or vandalize. I'm sure you had one on before coming in here, didn't you?"

Hermione wasn't convinced, although Luna's mention of Neville had her weak in the knees with relief.

"Prove it."

Luna thought for a moment. "Remember that silly lion's head hat I made in Hogwarts?" She smiled sadly at the memory. "It took me about a week to make. Professor Flitwick helped me charm it to get it to roar. Everybody liked it, which was nice, since they usually didn't like the things I made. It's gone now, but I think one day I'll make another just like it."

Hermione had her hands over her mouth. Though neither she or Luna had ever been close, she was still touched to see Luna's eyes were as tearful as her own.

Luna approached her, her arms held out as if coming in for a hug.

"We knew you'd come here eventually. We've been waiting for so long."

"No!" Hermione said quickly, backing away from her reach. Luna halted, worried.

"What's the matter?" She asked. "Are you alright? Has he hurt you again? Neville's taken care of Parkinson—has she hurt you, too?"

"No," Hermione blurted. "Pansy's my friend. She works for Draco but she's kind to me, please don't hurt her!"

Luna's eyes went wide. " _Oh_." She closed her eyes and raised her wand. A silvery hare materialized, and sped off behind them, relaying an unspoken message.

"I want to hug you so much," Hermione said, wiping at her eyes. "It's so good to see you."

"Why can't you?" Luna asked.

Hermione held out her hand to show Luna her ring.

"Draco put spells on it to control me. He knows whenever a man touches me. I'm not sure if it does the same for a woman. I think he only meant it for if someone tried to make an advance toward me—he's incredibly possessive—I don't want to risk it."

Luna stared gravely at the ring.

Hermione couldn't help but sense that the war had taken something from Luna, just as Draco had taken from Hermione. Luna seemed more grounded and less dreamy than she had ever remembered her being. Her heart constricted.

"Well you're safe now," Luna said. "Neville's coming with Parkinson. If you like, we can bring her, too."

"Where?" Hermione asked. "What's happening? Where _are_ we?"

Footsteps came up behind them. Hermione whirled around.

Neville wasn't smiling. There was an urgent look in his eyes as he beheld her, striding forward quickly. Pansy's body floated behind him—Hermione's breath caught, but Pansy was merely unconscious.

"Don't touch her," Luna warned Neville as he almost ran forward to Hermione, who was so shaken she stepped back again. " _He'll know."_

"I know," Neville said, glancing down angrily at Hermione's ring. "I remember."

He looked back up at Hermione. Relief slumped his shoulders. "I told you we'd come back for you."

Hermione smiled, nodding, tears sliding from her eyes again.

"I've missed you so much. I'm so glad you're okay."

"I'm glad you're okay, too. Don't worry, it's safe here. He can't see this place. Just the garden." He scanned her form. "I was so worried, after you went back to him… Are you hurt at all?"

"No."

"And he's not here?"

"No, thank goodness. What is this place?" She asked again.

They were quiet for a moment.

"We couldn't find any bodies," Luna said softly. "We think he burned them all. But we saw them die. We couldn't just let it be." She shook her head. "There's probably many we missed, but we can't know for sure."

Hermione stared down at the graves, her stomach rolling uneasily. If Draco hadn't burned all the bodies, how many more graves would there be here now?

"We came back here to rest for a bit," Neville said. "You'd saved my life but I knew Malfoy would kill me in a heartbeat if he saw me again that night. We couldn't stay here for too long."

"Just long enough to get food and take off," Luna said, nodding. "He wanted to go back for you, to try one last time."

Hermione looked at Neville, who was shaking his head.

"It was a bad idea, I know," he said. "In the end, I couldn't. We were too weak. Luna had to drag me away from the Burrow. But I couldn't forget the look in your eyes when you told me to run. I thought it was the last time I'd ever see you alive."

"I'm glad you didn't," Hermione said. "I've endured. If you had gone back there, he probably would have killed us both."

Neville nodded. "We went to the United States for a few years. We were bitter, and weak, and didn't know what to do. After that battle, after Harry died, everyone kind of just…vanished." He scowled. "Which made it easier for Malfoy to take over."

"We wanted to come back to England sooner, but couldn't," he added, looking haunted. "He's had his people following us everywhere we go. We've had to be more and more careful, but I couldn't get it out of my head. You sacrificed yourself to save me. To that monster. I had to go back. But we heard he'd moved and hidden you somewhere new, and we didn't know the first place to start looking. He's been using such advanced magic. He's even created some spells of his own, and those are a _bitch_ to get through, but we've learned from them, and we've made a few of our own."

"How?"

"We've slowly been learning how to make our own spells," Neville explained as Luna and Hermione broke their embrace. "I remembered what you told me about some of the spells he put on that ring. We've done loads of research but couldn't find much that would help us—I don't know how he got hold of those spells. They're either banned now (and with good reason) or he made them himself. I wanted to create a ward or shield or _something_ to nullify some of those, so that if we could find you again, he wouldn't be able to track you. It isn't permanent, but it's a start."

Hermione looked skeptically down at the ring. "So if you or Luna touch me, he won't be able to sense it."

"We've tested it. We don't have your ring, of course, but we've made substitutes. Not as powerful but our spells seem to have worked every time." His face turned grave again. "I've studied this thoroughly."

"If I let you touch me, and he senses it, can you get away?"

" _We_ can," Neville said intently. "Before he gets here."

Hermione braced herself. "Be ready."

And, without restraint, she flung herself at Neville, waiting for the ring to blast withering pain through her. He grabbed her, almost lifting her off the ground.

Nothing came.

"I don't believe it," she breathed, cupping Neville's cheek in her palm. His missing ear was hidden by his hair—part of the lobe was still attached to his head. Draco had intentionally done a sloppy job.

Still, no pain. The ring seemed to have gone dormant.

Shocked, she let out an incredulous laugh, and hugged him harder. Neville held her so tight she could hardly breathe.

His tears smeared onto her cheek.

"Thank Merlin we found you," he said, his voice wavering with emotion. "I promised Harry I'd help you get out for good."

He let her go and Luna swooped in next, wrapping her arms tight around Hermione, who buried her head into her shoulder.

"You're safe now," Luna whispered to her, and Hermione nodded tearfully.

"You never have to go back to that piece of shit," Neille said, his voice hoarse. "Ever."

"You said he can't see this place?"

"We tailored this one so that when he comes to the Burrow, he'll see the fence, and the garden, and he'll see the graves, but this forest won't be there. It won't be this large place for him. He never comes here though, so it was a bit of a waste. We keep this place under tight surveillance. Sometimes we use it to meet allies. There's wards to detect visitors and whether they're Death Eaters or not. That's how we knew you were here." He looked back at the headstones sadly. "They deserve better, though. One day, we're going to give them a better resting place."

He trailed off. "We didn't know if Draco told you about this place or not, or if you might come yourself to look around. We figured it was a long shot, knowing how he hardly lets you out of his sight. But we have wards around Hogwarts, too, and we sensed the both of you there yesterday. We were hopeful. We knew you would want to come here, next."

"We were prepared to fend off Draco, if he came, too," Luna said.

"He's too dangerous," Hermione warned, going pale. "I wouldn't have wanted you to risk death for me."

"Well, for now, looks like we avoided it," Neville said. "At least, until he realizes you're gone." He motioned to her hand. "We'll find a way to get that ring off you once we're home. Come with us. The others will want to see you, too."

He extended a hand. Hermione wanted so badly to reach out for it, but didn't.

"I can't go with you," she said.

Neville's face fell. "Why not? Has he put more spells on you?"

Hermione's face contorted with anguish. "My son. I can't leave him behind."

They looked stunned.

"A son?" Neville asked, his face draining of color.

Hermione frowned. "I thought everyone knew. He's four years old. Draco named him Lucio."

"We were out of the country for a long time," Neville said raggedly. He ran his palm over his face.

"Five years old?" Luna asked, covering her mouth. "We had no idea. We haven't heard about him anywhere—" Sympathy stirred in her eyes. "Was—was the child forced?"

Hermione couldn't bring herself to say it aloud. But she nodded.

Neville swore. He hugged her fiercely. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"He isn't like him," Hermione told them. "Lucio is sweet, and caring. He's only a boy. I'll die before I let him turn out like his father."

"I'm sorry I can't go with you," she said, her heart sinking. "I want to, more than anything. But I know he'll use my son against me to come back. I won't leave without him or Pansy. I don't doubt he'll kill either of them to get to me."

"How can we keep in contact with you?" Neville asked hurriedly.

"I don't know. I don't want to risk it. He'll know." She pushed her hair from her face. "I'll try to come back here. It might be some time from now."

"Okay," Neville said. "Is there anything else we can do?"

"Spark up activity far away, if you can," Hermione said. "Far from here. He always goes to inspect that himself, and it buys me time. Right now, I'm just trying to get my magic back." She wouldn't tell them exactly what that entailed. "He wants me to play along with his court. If you hear anything about me being…unlike myself, know I'm only doing it to end this."

They nodded.

"I hate this," Neville said.

"I know."

"I wish I didn't have a son, so I could stay here forever," Hermione admitted softly, feeling guilt and self-hatred cleave at her heart. "And never go back to that house. What kind of mother would ever think that?"

"The kind who has suffered for too long," Luna said firmly. "You shouldn't think like that, Hermione."

"I know," she replied softly. "I may not have wanted him, but I love my son."

She looked back at Pansy.

"I can't use magic at all," she asked. "Can you help me take her back to outside the gate?"

"Of course."

While Luna stood Pansy up exactly where she'd been before, Neville lingered with Hermione back inside the garden.

She hugged him.

"Don't come looking for me, no matter what happens," Hermione said. " _I'll_ come to you, when it's time." She took a deep breath. "And if I never do, whether he finally kills me or I'm still stuck there, I want you to end my life if you can, the next time you see me."

Neville looked horrified.

"What about your son?"

She hesitated. "I can't picture living my life normally after this," she said, her voice breaking. "He's ruined so much of me and for me. I can't bear it anymore."

"Hermione…"

"I'll have my magic back soon," she said confidently. No room for doubt.

"I'll send Lucio to school, so he'll be out of Draco's influence." She blinked back tears. "I want him to have a normal childhood, the kind Draco thinks will make him weak. But if something happens to me, and I'm unable to do that, if you could find him, and take care of him for me," she squeezed his hand, "it would mean the world to me."

"Of course, I will." His hands dug into her back. "But you're going to live through this, Hermione. I swear it. You've been through enough. You deserve peace."

"I'm ready for it all to end," she said, her voice firm. "If I can escape and live peacefully with my son, I'll do it. But I'm afraid Draco will have had enough, and his obsession and wrath will get the better of him. He won't let me go—not alive, at least. The best thing I can do is try to kill him, and let my son live a normal life. My son, first. He is the top priority."

Neville shook his head.

"Promise me, Neville," she insisted. "Take care of my son, if I fail. Save him and take my life, if I remain trapped. I refuse to live my life out, trapped with a mad man."

Perhaps it was a coward's path. She wasn't proud of herself. But if she was out of the picture, Draco's obsession would end.

 _It has to._

He had said he was going to make a Horcrux for himself. She held no doubt that he would try to make one for her as well, to keep her with him and defy death. She had to act before that happened, or her last chance would be ripped from her fingers.

If she ran away, he'd find her and keep her or kill her. She would fight to the death to make sure Lucio would be safe and free from all that, first. She was sure Draco would likely put up more of a fight to keep her than his own son. She would use that to her advantage.

 _I'll take any advantage I can find. Anything, for freedom. For the both of us, or for him only._

Luna's Patronus hare sprinted through the fence, and nodded at them. She was ready to wake Pansy. She had already been obliviated, and had her memory modified. There was little chance of Draco looking into her mind, as he relied so heavily on that ring, but just in case he did, they were covered.

"Goodbye, and thank you," she said to both the hare and Neville, knowing that the hare would convey her message back to Luna. She kissed Neville on the cheek.

"I hope we see each other again."

"We will. And I'll look after—after Lucio, if things go wrong," he said. "I promise."

She pressed his hand. "Thank you."

Luna apparated beside them, and hugged Hermione.

"Be safe," she whispered. Hermione nodded, and went to the gate's door.

"One last request," she said, before leaving. "He'll be able to smell you both on me."

"Shit," Neville said in understanding. He raised his wand and cast a charm her way. Hermione felt some invisible force dust her off completely, like a jet of air from directly overhead.

"Goodbye," she said, casting one last look at them. She was sure her eyes were red and puffy from all the crying she'd done; her nose was stuffy again and she felt her heart twist and break the moment the gate closed behind her.

Pansy went up to her immediately, one hand on her back, showing no sign of being aware of what had happened.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice soft. "How do you feel?"

"Exhausted," Hermione said. "But I'm glad I came. Please take me home."

Pansy nodded, and they apparated back to the Manor.

* * *

The first thing she did upon arriving was to visit her son. Lucio was bored, an open book lying off to the side utterly ignored as he stared out the window with his elbows propped on the sill, one hand with a finger extended drawing on the glass, the other supporting his head. He hummed to himself merrily. His door had been open, so Hermione paused at the doorway and watched, her heart softening.

About a minute later, she knocked on the door frame, and he whirled around.

"What are you playing, darling?"

"I want to fly in the clouds," Lucio said, smiling, running up to her and throwing his arms around her. "They look so soft! Have you ever touched a cloud, mummy? Do you know what they're like?"

"I've never touched one," Hermione admitted, sitting them both down on his bed. "I know clouds look fluffy, but they're actually rather cold, and you can't really grab them."

"Oh," Lucio said, looked crestfallen. "Why?"

"They're made of water drops or ice crystals," Hermione informed him.

"Why?"

Hermione smiled. "I don't know."

Lucio was frowning, staring out the window again. "I still want to touch one. Can I fly up there, Mummy?"

"Perhaps when you're a little older, she said, ruffling his hair. It was as pale as Draco's, but was wavy, not quite curly like hers.

"Why not now?"

"Because it's getting late, my love," she said, pointing to the sun that was beginning to set. "And I don't think your Father will approve until you've been flying for a few more years."

Lucio scowled more deeply. "I'm going to be the _best_ flyer when I'm older, mummy."

"Of course you will," she said. "Your father is a great flyer, himself. He'll keep teaching you what he knows. Maybe, once you start going to school, you can learn how to play Quidditch."

Lucio's eyes went round. "Quidditch!?"

"Yes," she said seriously. "But that's for when you're older, do you hear me? It's a very dangerous sport, and students aren't allowed to play until they turn sixteen."

"But that's _so_ long from now!"

"Well, then that means you'll have a lot of time to get better at it!"

Lucio wanted to argue, but realized he had something else to be cross about.

" _You_ left without saying goodbye! Pansy told me!"

Hermione stroked his cheek. "I didn't want to wake you. It was very early."

Lucio's pale blue eyes regarded her curiously. "Where did you go, Mummy?"

"I went to see some old friends," she said slowly. "They died a long time ago."

His brows lowered. "Died?"

"They're not alive anymore. Not like you and me."

"Who were they? Does Father know them?"

"They were very good friends of mine from school." She let out a long sigh. "Yes, your father knew them."

Lucio stared hard at her. She knew her eyes were red and raw and her face and hair were a mess from grief.

"I'd like you to come with me to visit them, someday," she said.

He nodded.

Lucio did not know the word for grief, and hadn't ever really dealt with it yet at such a young age. He knew anger, and sadness—those he _had_ felt before, like when he had lost his favorite toy after a visit to the village and never got it back, or like when father went away on long trips and Lucio missed him very much.

Sadness was a different thing. It was heavy, and he could sometimes sense it around his mother, even when she was happy. He didn't know why she was sad, when she had him and father and Pansy and such a big house. He had asked Pansy once if she ever got sad, and she had said yes but when he asked her why his mummy was so sad sometimes, Pansy hadn't answered and instead found a new game for them to play.

It was all so mysterious.

But here was that sadness again, and he remembered when he had been hurt and sad, and how it had helped to have Pansy or Mummy hug him, and he wanted her to feel better so he hugged her, pressing his head against her chest.

"I love you, mummy," he said.

Her breath caught, and her arms wound around him, holding him close.

"I love you too, Lucio," she said, "more than anything else in the whole world."

"Even Father?" He asked, slightly surprised.

She didn't answer, and stroked his hair.

* * *

Draco was waiting in the library with Martin when she walked in, changed back into that damned green gown.

Here was the first test. Hermione's heart was bound to implode. Her hands were cold and clammy.

 _Does he know something happened? Is he wondering why I took so long? Can he sense my lies?_

They both stood as she approached, Draco scanning her face, his expression mildly concerned as he took in the ravages of her crying.

"Good afternoon, my Lady," Martin said, bowing.

She barely managed to nod at him as she walked past.

She went straight to Draco, burying her face into his chest. She had asked Pansy to use a crying charm on her before leaving the bedroom. Pansy had asked no questions, but knew her determination to get her magic back. She had added her own touch by tousling Hermione's hair prettily, so it looked just messy but effortlessly and enticingly so; she had (with Hermione's permission) cast a quick freezing charm in the room so that Hermione's nipples were stiff and peaked when she met Draco in the library. She had also offered to reduce the puffiness around Hermione's face and the redness in her eyes, but there Hermione had said no. She wanted the rest to be real. He would face the effects of her pain.

 _But I'll use your favorite parts of my pain against you._

He was immensely pleased when she went to him at once, she could tell. His arms wrapped around her for a moment before he cupped her face in his hands and looked at her weary, tear-stained face before staring intently into her eyes, seeing the pain there.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, his lips pressing onto hers.

Hermione accepted his kiss eagerly, clutching at the front of his robes as the crying charm did its work. She felt his erection stir against her and wanted to smile. He slid his tongue into her mouth, taking advantage of her need in her grief. She let him, though she wished her nails were talons she could slit his throat with.

When they broke apart she wiped at her eyes, flushing deeper, as if in shame. He saw that reaction and his hands gripped her harder. He pressed his erection harder against her, as if he wanted to take her there and then and didn't care that Martin was there.

 _I bet you would_ , she thought.

"Do you think you can sit for the painting today?" He murmured.

"Yes," she said, turning her head to look at Martin, who was busying himself in preparing his palette. She twisted in just the right way to allow Draco a good look at her cleavage in the flimsy silk of her gown. She felt his fingers toy with her nipple as she spoke to Martin, jerking slightly at her husband's touch.

"I hope the wait wasn't too long," she said, remembering just in time to not apologize, as Draco would chastise her over it later.

"I am at your beck and call, my Lady, Martin said, bowing again. "If you summoned me at midnight to paint, I would do it."

She smiled at him. Draco had bent down to suck at her nipple through her dress, teasing it with his tongue. His hand palmed her other breast, massaging it gently. A flicker of desire kindled inside her. She willed it to snuff out.

 _He only likes my grief when it benefits him._

She caught Martin's eye. He had gone very red. She turned her head to face Draco.

"Draco, don't," she said firmly. She braced her hands against his chest and pushed gently. "Not now."

He straightened, his hands on her arms in a restrictive grip, reminding her who was in control.

 _We'll see about that._

"I'll come get you, once this is done," he said. "I'll be with Lucio until then."

He kissed her hungrily and left.

Hermione assumed her position on the chaise. The damp spot Draco's mouth had left over her nipple was still very visible.

"May I ask if you're well, my Lady?" Martin said, studiously mixing paints on his palette with a knife.

"I wasn't, but I'm feeling better, now," she said, relaxing into the seductive pose Draco had forced her into. "I went to visit some friends I haven't seen in many years."

"That sounds lovely," he said, slightly distracted. She heard him begin to paint, finding comfort in the soft sound of brushes stroking against canvas. "Did you have a good time, my lady?"

"Not particularly," Hermione said, closing her eyes. "Visiting graves doesn't make for a merry visit."

He stopped painting. "Forgive me, my Lady, I shouldn't have asked."

"There's no need to apologize," she said gently, her voice smooth. "You didn't know."

He began to paint again silently. Hermione sat and reflected.

She had just begun to wonder where Lucio was and what he was doing, when Martin spoke up again.

"Are you happy here, Hermione?"

She looked him square in the eye.

"Ask my husband, and he'll tell you what he thinks my answer should should be telling enough," she said softly.

"I thought as much," he said. "I'll confess I've wondered, but I didn't want to assume when I didn't know the whole story."

She nodded.

He opened his mouth and then closed it quickly, as if not knowing what to say.

"Don't be afraid to speak," she said. "I am not him."

Martin hesitated and then put his brush down onto his palette.

"How did this come about, my Lady? Has he put you under some sort of spell?"

"Many," she said, brushing her hair from her face. "To make sure I don't run away again."

"Again?"

Hermione touched her throat, where the emeralds were cold and dug into her skin.

"He was killing me," she said, her voice faint. "He was squeezing the life from me. I had to get out. I tried so many times…"

Martin was shaking his head, horrified.

" _How_ did this all happen?"

"We went to school together," Hermione said. "We hated each other. Things changed on his side rapidly. He abducted me several years ago when we were still in school, and forced me into marriage while I was unconscious."

"That ring…"

She gazed down at it.

"He gave me a diamond and emerald chain." She smiled bitterly. "He tells me I'm his equal, yet he's collared and leashed me and taken my power away like I'm the one who can't be trusted."

Martin stepped forward slowly. She hated the sympathy in his eyes.

"Is there anything I—"

She held up a hand. "Please don't."

He looked confused. "My lady?"

"Too many people have been hurt or killed for trying to help me. I won't drag another body with me." She smiled. "I don't need another hero."

"Well said, my love," Draco's voice came from behind her. Cold hands slithered onto her shoulders, gripping tight. Hermione closed her eyes and sighed.

"Always listening, aren't you."

"I just came in to see what you wanted for dinner," he said.

"Liar."

She raised her hand to touch his, and to her relief, his grip loosened a fraction.

"Trying to steal my wife, Faulkner?" Draco asked, his voice like steel.

Martin balked. "No, my Lord. Never."

"You seem to be getting comfortable with her," Draco accused. "Do you wish to be acquainted with my dungeon?"

Martin's palette almost fell to the ground. He caught it in time. " _No_ , my Lord. Please forgive me. I was only curious…"

"Curious about what?" Draco hissed.

"He wanted to know the story of our relationship," Hermione said, stroking his hand, hoping it would calm him. "I was filling him in on it."

Draco said nothing for a moment. Martin was pale, his eyes locked onto Draco's who was likely to bore a hole through his face by his stare.

"Did you tell him that I killed your former lover? And my best friend, who helped you run from me?"

Martin went paler still.

"No," Hermione murmured.

"Did you tell him how I raped you to consummate our marriage?"

"No."

"Hmmm…" he said, sounding so casual that it grated Hermione's nerves. "What about when I infiltrated Hogwarts using the identity of someone I'd killed, just to see you and dance with you for a few moments?"

She couldn't speak. She shook her head.

"You left out so much," he said, his hand coming up to cup her jaw from behind. His thumb stroked her bottom lip.

"I'll let you off with a warning," he said after a long deliberation in which Martin had been left tense, looking like he might throw up. He had looked briefly at Hermione, who was trapped in Draco's grip but calm, trying to reassure him with a look.

 _If he wanted you dead, you already would be._

"Thank you, my Lord," Martin said, bowing deep. "Thank you. I swear I meant no ill."

"Liar," Draco said, grinning. "I'm only keeping you alive because I want these portraits done. Anger me again, and you'll rot in the bowels of my dungeon. Your hands will be the first part of you to go."

"I know you want my wife," he continued. "I won't punish you for that, so long as you don't act on it. Dream all you want, you'll never have her."

* * *

When the session was over, Draco brought Lucio into the studio as Martin was leaving, and ordered him to stay for dinner. The dinner was quiet, and Lucio babbled happily about his lessons, and going to a muggle playground the day before with Pansy, while Hermione said and ate very little.

It was if nothing had happened at all. Draco questioned Martin more about his past and his art, and Martin showed them all examples he had brought with him, his hands trembling all the while.

Hermione had ruminated over her graveside visit through most of it. She had briefly thought of asking Neville to Obliviate her, too, before leaving the Burrow, but decided against it. Draco had only ever invaded her thoughts a handful of times, and had not done it in years. She had never wondered why or cared to, having more pressing matters to focus on. She supposed it was another form of violation and he had decided he violated her enough in other ways, so she could keep that to herself.

She suspected he didn't want to see or feel the true extent of her misery and pain. Either that, or he was afraid she might not be able to stand having that one last bastion of her self taken away from her.

Either way, she was now grateful for it. He was cocky enough to assume he was unbeatable. Well, she would stoke that ego to get what she wanted. She would be the wife he had wanted all those years, not only in body but in spirit and behavior, as well.

She made herself gaze at him from time to time during dinner, and made sure he caught her. His eyes were dark. He wet his lips

He took her to bed after Martin left and she bid goodnight to Lucio. He kissed her gently, his hands on her back.

"Your friends might be gone, but I'm here," he said softly to her. "I always will be."

"I miss them," she admitted, closing her eyes as he kissed her forehead.

"I know you do. But leave them in the past, Hermione. You have a family now."

 _I had a family, then._

"Let them go," he whispered.

 _Never._

She gripped his robes.

"We'll be the strongest family to ever grace this fucking country," he breathed into her hair. "We'll make our own laws. Rule beside me, Hermione. Rule _with_ me. I'll give you the world."

"I don't want the world."

"Rule with me," he repeated. He kissed her cheek, her lips, her nose, her closed eyelids. "Be my queen, Hermione." His hands roamed over her body. He pulled back to look at her as she opened her eyes. His hands cupped her face. Their noses touched, their breaths mingled.

"Please."

The word hung in the air between them, a heavy chain weighing them down. He stared intently into her eyes. The fire had started in the hearth—Hermione hadn't even realized but it flickered loudly, its amber light casting shadows around the room.

Heart pounding, she gave a nearly imperceptible nod. He noticed and breathed in sharply, his hands tightening around her to the point of pain.

Without a word he lay her down and peeled that dress off her, her breasts his first target, her lips his second, while his other hand worked between her legs. She welcomed it all, clutching his arms, his hair, his ass, hatred burning in her blood as he pumped inside her as deep as he could go, as if he wanted to breed her that very night.

Of course, he wasn't so foolish as to believe that in one day she had completely overridden her hatred and dislike of him. She knew that and felt it, too, that slight disbelief as she'd moaned his name and let him handle her how he wanted, pulling her legs over his shoulders, almost bending her in half as he pushed and pushed, groaning, his head falling back in pleasure, but his greed and lust always won out in the end. She pushed him onto his back and rode him hard, grinding herself against him; his hands bruising her hips, his mouth wrenching open to gasp and moan.

She could blame it on the grief later, if he questioned her.

 _Let it start here,_ she thought as he buried his head between her breasts while he throbbed inside her, filling her. She rode him to completion, her body quivering on top of his while he moaned. Before she had finished completely he flipped her over and onto her back, entering her again from behind. Hermione gripped the sheets, trying to quiet her moans as Draco pressed himself flush against her and thrust, becoming rougher until the pain was on the brink of overriding the pleasure.

"Slow down," she hissed, turning her head to glare at him.

He smiled. "Of course, little bird."

She managed to get her hand underneath her to play with herself. He watched greedily, and after he'd come again,brushed aside her hand and pushed her back down to let his tongue do the work, his arms hooked around her thighs. Hermione writhed on the bed and panted his name, gripping handfuls of his hair.

 _Let him think he's finally breaking me down, and that it all started with the sex._

It made sense, after all. She couldn't fake suddenly being in love with him after him having told her how her friends had died because of him. But he knew that while she loathed him, she still enjoyed the sex from time to time (when he wasn't vicious), and she would feed into that belief.

She pretended to fall asleep immediately after, making sure to turn away from him, as if ashamed of her desire for him, as she had done so many times before. He noticed and let her keep her distance but draped his arm around her, his hand spread on her ribs, thumb grazing the heated underside of her breast. She made sure not to flinch, but relax under his touch. Let him read into that whatever he wanted.

She had been good at acting, long ago. She distantly remembered Ron telling her so. She was not the sort of person to let a skill go to waste.

He was immensely pleased, she could tell. She had finally said yes. Not to loving him, as they had already struck deals over it, but on joining him.

 _What will come of this?_

 _What will he have me do?_

She heard Draco's breathing deepen behind her. His breath ruffled her hair. Thinking fast, she placed her hand over his again where it lay on her ribs.

In response, he slid that arm underneath her and hooked it around her waist, and drew her to him, his other arm wrapping and pressing around her chest, so that she could hardly move.

"I love you," he whispered, and kissed her shoulder.

Hermione pretended to have fallen asleep.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Please review!**


	7. The Stranger pt 1

**Slow updates will continue, be warned!**

 **Seven.**

When she awoke the following morning, a gift lay on her belly.

It was contained in a sturdy, slim box, wrapped in a ribbon.

He was nude and sitting on the bed beside her, stroking her hair. She made sure to lean into his touch as she awoke, stirring slowly, knowing his eyes were watching her body move underneath her covers.

 _A lot of work, having a_ _satyriasis for a husband,_ she thought drily.

When her eyes landed on the box she frowned then looked at him, pushing herself up so that her covers slid down to pool in her lap.

He gestured for her to open it.

The box was wider than it needed to be. He had done that intentionally to fool her, but she didn't realize until after she had opened it.

When she saw what was inside, the gasp and smile of delight that the gift elicited were not faked.

She grabbed her wand from the box and planned to kiss him and kill him in the same breath, but the moment she touched it, remembered her wand could not function while she still wore his ring. A crushing thought, but it was so familiar to hold it again, so relieving, even though it felt cold and dull under her touch.

 _Still dormant._

She tried calling up her magic quickly, hoping she might be wrong, but again, there was that feeling inside her of coming up against a sort of wall that trapped her magic inside her.

Disappointment washed over her, but she chased it away quickly.

 _Did you really expect it to be this easy?_

Still, it was better than nothing at all. She let Draco kiss her.

"It's a start," he said, smiling. He stroked her hair. "You still won't be able to cast magic until I take that ring off you. But if you continue to behave, you'll be able to use magic again like you once did. And I'll teach you how to do it without your wand, too, like me."

Hermione kissed him again, pushing him back until he was leaning against the headboard.

"Thank you, my Lord."

Draco cupped her face in his hands, returning the kiss. When they broke apart, he brushed his thumb against the corner of her mouth.

"You're welcome, little bird."

* * *

They went down to breakfast. Hermione found she had no appetite. Lucio was sleepy, not saying much, stirring his porridge without much intention of eating it, except for when Draco reminded him to take a bite. She watched it quietly, a tinge of dread fraying at her calm, though the scene was peaceful.

"Are you alright, my love?" Hermione asked Lucio, a furrow in her brow. "You're so quiet today."

Lucio's stirring of his porridge ground to a halt. He rubbed his eye. "I had a nightmare."

Draco paused while eating, and looked at his son curiously.

"What was it?" Hermione prodded, her voice gentle. She reached out and put her hand on his arm. "Was it very scary?"

Lucio nodded, looking down at his breakfast rather shyly.

"Why didn't you wake us?" Hermione asked, reaching out with her other hand to brush his hair back and feel his forehead. A little warm, but nothing out of the ordinary. His cheeks were a little sticky from eating.

"I was afraid of seeing a ghost," he replied, looking almost ashamed of being afraid.

Draco paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "A ghost?"

"I read a book that had a ghost in it," Lucio said. "Pansy said ghosts are real, and she told me of the ghosts at Hogwarts."

"She frightened you." Draco's voice was flat. A shiver ran through Hermione.

"No," she began, but Lucio cut her off, speaking more loudly.

"She didn't," he protested. "I remembered a story a boy told me once when mummy and I went to the village. It was about a man who hurt a lady, and the boy said they live around the village, but no one really knows where."

Hermione's eyes locked onto Draco's. His face remained neutral, but as their gazes held, she saw a twitch in his mouth.

"Really," was all he said. "Did you see that in your nightmare?"

Lucio shook his head. "I didn't see anything. I was scared. I heard scary sounds."

Hermione kissed his cheek, though she had gone cold. "It's alright, sweetheart, it was only a nightmare."

Lucio nodded, then looked at Hermione.

"Have you ever hurt anyone, mummy?"

Hermione frowned and glanced out of the corner of her eye at her son. What had prompted this? She was starting to suspect there was something else he hadn't told them about his dream.

"Sometimes," she admitted slowly. "Sometimes I was so mad I wanted someone else to hurt. Sometimes it was by accident. But it never feels good, my love. Remember that. Hurting someone else never solves any problems."

Lucio absorbed this for a moment and then, accepting her answer, looked at Draco.

"Have you ever hurt anyone, daddy?"

Draco took a drink of water, leaning back in his chair. Underneath the table, he extended his legs, until they touched Hermione's.

"Yes," he said, placing his hand over Hermione's. She stilled. "Your mother's right. Hurting people isn't good. But sometimes it's necessary. It's up to you to decide when is the right time, and when isn't."

A bird sang outside.

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but he gave a warning squeeze of her hand. Her hand flared with pain. She grit her teeth.

Lucio was frowning. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"You will," Draco replied, sounding so sure that it made Hermione bristle, even knowing he was right. "Whether you mean to or not, you will, and it won't just happen once. Maybe you meant to, or maybe you didn't. But it will happen, and you can decide whether you feel guilty or not, and what the right thing to do afterward would be."

His grip on her hand loosened.

"The best you can do is to always be considerate of others," Hermione said, trying to smile. "If you're angry with someone, count to ten or take a deep breath. It's okay to leave the room. Or talk to them and tell them why you're angry."

What a lie. What hypocrisy, to be lecturing her own son on hurt and guilt when she and the man beside her had never adhered to these lessons when all they ever did was hurt each other, even if it was more him than her. Draco could not have missed such irony, either, for his thumb was stroking the back of her hand as if to soothe a hurt. What shame, to sit there and join hands as if they were a united front and lie through their teeth, and dole out advice like they were the paragons of virtue.

Draco sensed her turmoil and turned to her before he began to eat. He caught her eye.

"You're not hungry?" He asked, his gaze measured as if he knew what her answer should be and was waiting for her to realize it too, and take it.

Hermione reached out and touched his shoulder, not breaking the stare. Approval marked his expression, even as through her own expression, she made known she was not happy about the earlier discussion. She let her hand linger there for a moment and then took it away to curl around her fork, and eat a chunk of cantaloupe.

She had left her wand on the dresser. She had resisted the urge to carry it with her, but her gowns had no pockets and she never wore robes inside, anyhow.

 _Without magic, it's useless. Draco would probably tease me if I did bring it with me._

She was sore around her hips and it almost hurt when she walked. There were bruises around her wrists from when he had pinned her down. Draco had been so hungry the night before. He had ravaged and savored her all night. She had known better than to hold back, too.

The guilt of finding pleasure with him had faded long, long ago. She had learned to accept that it was one of the very few ways she was allowed to expel her pent-up frustration and tenseness. Ideally, she would never have him (and possibly anyone else) touch her again, but what other choice did she have? It was either find a release with him (albeit temporary) or have it unwillingly and not get anything from it whatsoever. At the very least, at least she couldn't deny that Draco was good at 'helping' her in that regard. She supposed the whole ordeal would be more unbearable if he only cared about his pleasure. She supposed it was a sick sort of relief that he actually was considerate about giving her pleasure most of the time.

She shifted in her seat. Other parts of her were sore, too.

Draco was watching her.

"Restless?" He asked, a curve to his lips.

She nodded.

"Why don't you go lie down?" he suggested, taking one last bite of his omelet. His eyes lingered on hers. She knew he was thinking about the night before.

Lucio was peeling a grape, inspecting the texture of its skin between his fingers.

"Don't play with your food," Draco reminded him. Lucio made a face and ate the grape.

"I'm finished," he said and pushed his plate away. "Can I go play, Father?"

"You may," Draco called for Pansy, who appeared at the door. "It's hot outside. Remember to stay hydrated."

"Yes, Father." Lucio rose from the table and went to hug Hermione, who kissed his cheek.

Once his and Pansy's footsteps had faded away, Draco and Hermione sat in silence.

He was still watching her. Not daring to show her irritation, she finally looked up from her cup of tea.

"What are you thinking?" He asked before she could ask that very question.

"Just what I've gotten myself into," she replied, putting down her cup.

Draco smiled, showing all his teeth. Hermione wasn't sure, but sometimes, she thought they looked like they were growing sharper.

"Something wonderful," he said.

* * *

He took her into his study after breakfast. Hermione went to sit in front of his desk as she usually did but instead he led her to his chair, holding her hand, and helped her sit into it. He circled back 'round the table to sit before her. Hermione watched him carefully all the while.

"Where do you want to begin, my love?" He asked, crossing one leg over his knee and leaning back in his chair.

Hermione hesitated, a thousand replies surfacing beneath her lips. Where to start? It made her head swim. "I-I'm not sure."

"Don't fret," he said. "There's so much to cover. But there _is_ something I've been wanting to share with you for some time." He paused. "It's rather grim."

Hermione felt her pulse quicken.

"Grim for who?"

"It involves someone you knew once."

Hermione felt a strange tightness in her throat.

 _Who else has joined the ranks of the dead among my friends and family?_

Her vision blurred. She cleared her throat.

"Tell me." She swallowed. "Please, my Lord."

Draco hesitated.

"You remember the Weasley twins."

Her hands had gone clammy.

"Yes..." She was looking at the wall, her eyes wet. Draco sensed her bracing herself.

"You remember the last battle, how they went missing after."

"We all thought they were dead, but they came back," she said, remembering the weeks of sitting tense and miserable in a mostly silent Burrow.

"Yes, sweetheart, but one of them died last week."

The first tear fell.

"Who was it?" she whispered. "Fred, or George?"

Fred, the one who had once stumbled upon her crying in an alcove because of something hurtful Ron had said, and had comforted her and forced his brother to apologize for the day after? Or George, the one who had seen a seventh-year boy slipping some strange potion into her drink while she hadn't been paying attention during the Yule Ball, and "accidentally" knocked it out of her hands, and had never confessed until much later on?

 _Tell me it's neither,_ she wanted to say to Draco. _Tell me they're both alive, them and every last person who I love is still living, and let it be true, and I'll never fight you again. Bring them all back to life and I'll happily suffer for the rest of mine if it means I didn't cause some of this._

"Fred."

She remembered him the last time she'd seen him; brimming with energy, talking happily to his older brother over breakfast.

She'd never imagined one of the twins would die before the other. She'd never thought of them dying at all. The two of them had tricks and magic in their favor for as long as she'd known them; that and the spirit of mischief. What happened when one half of a whole broke off?

She had to force the question out of her throat. "How did it happen?"

"He killed himself."

She let out an audible sob at that, and he quickly wrapped one arm around her and pressed a hand to her cheek. She struggled briefly, but he held her close and she subsided, shaken.

"Why did he do it?"

He rubbed her back. The pressure was eerily comforting. Hermione couldn't remember if he'd ever been so empathetic when someone on her side passed away. Usually, he was indifferent. "There was no explanation."

" _Liar_ ," she said, pushing him away suddenly. "No explanation? You think your slaughtering half his family had nothing to do with it?"

Draco felt his anger rise. "If he hadn't gotten himself captured at the battle he'd have died with the rest of them."

Hermione stared at him in horror.

"It may not be easy to hear, but it's the truth. I wasn't going to let everyone live, Hermione. You know me well enough by now that it shouldn't surprise you."

Furious, she gripped the lapels of his coat. _"They were family to me!"_

He looked at her without emotion, his hands tight around her arms. "You have a new family now."

She threw her hands down. "Not by choice."

"They never could have protected you from me."

"No," she agreed because it was true. She'd accepted it. "But with them it was real."

His eyes flashed. "Do you want to know what happened to the twins while they were missing?"

"Did you have anything to do with it?"

"Not directly."

Hermione shuddered and turned her head towards the wall, her eyesight blurred by tears. Her head had begun to hurt. "I can't look at you. You disgust me."

Draco laughed.

"The news doesn't stop there, Hermione."

"Let me go," she said stiffly.

"This concerns the remaining twin."

George. Poor George. How was he now without his brother? It tore at her heart to think about, to picture one without the other.

She tried pulling out of his grip. "I don't want to hear any more."

He pulled her back. "He's still alive."

She paused.

"And well?" She asked.

"I figure."

She still refused to look at him. "And you're not planning on killing him?"

Draco kissed her. She turned away. His lips dragged against her cheek. "The thought hasn't crossed my mind yet."

"Don't you dare."

"That's as close to a promise I can give, Hermione."

She tried to leave. Draco jerked her closer, earning a grunt from her. His hand at the back of her neck forced her head close. She stiffened.

"I've spared enough lives for you, wife," he said coldly. "But you can't plead everyone's case. They don't all deserve it."

"They don't deserve having their lives taken from them by someone like you."

"Don't speak of things you know nothing about," he snarled. His fingers wrapped around her arms so tight he felt he might snap her bones if he squeezed harder. Her eyes were on the wall opposite him now, distant, pained.

"Is that all, my Lord?" she asked stiffly.

"No."

"Then kindly let me go. Your temper bores me."

She had fought not to let the words get out, but couldn't help herself. Even if he would punish her for it, it felt good sometimes to let some of that anger out, even if it could never hurt him as much as he hurt her.

Hermione felt his anger in the way he held his body and braced herself.

 _Well, there went any progress I made in the last two days,_ she thought furiously. _Idiot._

His hand gripped the collar of her dress and with one jerk of his arm, he tore it away from her, halving her dress into two shredded strips. Hermione winced.

"Don't act surprised, sweetheart," he said coldly. "You brought this on yourself." He pulled the ruined garment from her body, leaving her nude. Hermione resisted the urge to cover herself.

Draco placed his spread hand over her sternum. She met his eyes at last. Her jaw was set, her eyes like ice. He applied pressure, pushing her back towards his desk.

"Lie back on the table."

Quivering in the cold, she did. Regret filled her. She should never have angered him. But it was so easy to forget.

 _Besides,_ she thought bitterly to herself as he came closer. _How much else do I have to lose?_

His cold hands wrapped around her ankles and traveled up the length of her legs, then spanned over her thighs slowly. Hermione clenched her jaw and tried to regulate her breathing.

His hands left her, and he circled around the table slowly. Hermione's hands lay flat on the table—more than anything she wanted to bring them up to her chest or her stomach. It was so awkward just laying there. But that was what he wanted her to feel.

He was standing behind her now, at the end of the table where her upper half lied. "You know I have to punish you. Tell me why that is."

The room was cold now that she was naked. Had it been from the start, or had he made it colder? Her nipples had stiffened. Her skin pebbled.

"I insulted you."

"I wonder when you will learn to control that mouth of yours," he said softly, "but I won't lie to you. I've always enjoyed that sharp tongue." He stroked her head. She jumped. "Simply learn the right moment to start fires, little bird. I love your heat, but you can't burn me. You only make trouble for yourself."

Suddenly her arms were raised up and over her head by magic, and it felt like invisible handcuffs held her wrists close together, attaching themselves to the side of the desk, to the effect that her arms were bent at an angle and held above her head, and her hands fixed to the side the table. She gently tried rotating her wrists to ensure there was enough room, that the blood flow wasn't cut off.

He had walked to the other end of the table, and when she wasn't paying attention, had restrained her legs as well, thought they mercifully weren't bent like her arms.

"You probably think I'm going to take you now," he said. "But I won't. You're going to wait here until I come back, and if I feel like it I'll fuck you, and when I feel like you've learned something from this I'll release you."

Hermione stared up at the ceiling. "For how long?"

"As long as I want."

"How am I supposed to go to the bathroom?"

"The House Elf will help you. He'll bring you something small to eat every now and then."

"What about my son?" she asked, but he didn't answer and left. Hermione sighed angrily and let her head drop back down onto the table, not even wincing from the pain.

Time crawled. Hermione didn't bother keeping time, knowing it would only make her more impatient. Toffee had already fed her by hand, a small bread roll and slices of fruit, saying nothing when she'd asked him about where Draco was, or if he'd seen her son.

She was content to lay there as long as Draco was not in the room with her, though her arms had begun to ache and her body began to hurt from lying on the hard wooden surface for so long. She shifted her weight from one side to the other, tried arching her back now and then, stretched her legs and wiggled her toes to keep herself busy, and to keep them from falling asleep.

Hours after that she'd been allowed to relieve herself, and shower afterward.

Since there was nothing to do but think, she slept after being returned to the office. Thinking too much was dangerous. If she took a wrong turn, at any moment any innocent thought might give way to a memory of a life she once had, or someone she'd once known, when she was free. It was never pleasant, especially after the news she'd received earlier, so she was eager to keep away from it, and if sleep was the only option then she would do it without complaint.

The only problem was how uncomfortable her sleeping arrangement was. It was easy to fall asleep, but harder to stay that way when her body longed for a soft mattress and warm sheets. The surface underneath her went from hot to cold, it seemed, while she slept, and never in a preferable pattern. It made her irritable and more regretful that she'd gotten herself into this.

It was well into the night—it must have been, considering the amount of time she'd been lying there (she'd given up and had begun counting the hours (9)), that she'd woken with a start to find her husband there beside her, stroking her softly.

She'd stiffened at once, expecting him to say something, or to kiss her, perhaps, but all he'd done was stroke the skin along her stomach, her hips, her legs, her arms, and chest. His hands stroked circles around her breasts, let his knuckles drag over her nipples, up and down, up and down, until they hardened and her breasts ached for more. She didn't know what to do but closed her eyes, and hoped that if he wanted sex that he would get it over with. But he didn't.

His hand went further down her body and stroked her thighs all around, his fingertips glided again and again over her hipbones, they traced the soft line of hair that grew into a thicker patch where her legs met, and played with the curls there, dipping down to touch the place where her thighs met.

Hermione tried to sleep through it, but couldn't focus when his hands were so careful, so thorough. He never penetrated her but always his fingers were there, lingering at the front of her lips, giving tiny, gentle strokes that made her wet despite her mood.

His hands remained there longer than she wanted, never wavering, always with the small strokes, and though it wasn't enough she felt her body responding to it, felt a kindling of heat spark inside of her, the twitches of her body that gave away her desire. When he felt it he applied more pressure, pushed his fingers closer to her vagina, and helpless, she moaned.

He stopped. His hands came away from her and without another word, he left the room. Relieved, Hermione relaxed, annoyed with herself that she'd given in so easily. She should have known he would play something like this. Now she would have to be on her guard, but how the hell was she supposed to fight back when she was tied up like this?

 _I should never have opened my stupid mouth._

* * *

When she woke up the windows were open and it was clearly morning, and Draco was there again, his hand repeating the same actions he'd done the previous night, and she was wet again and moaning while she'd been asleep, her body itching to tug at her restraints to get closer to him but she forced herself to stop, to keep still. She was barely able to wonder how he hadn't woken her up earlier—had he charmed her to remain asleep? He didn't seem to mind, but this time his fingers pushed inside her and stroked her there too, the rough pad of his thumb carefully administering attention to her clit, rubbing little circles, and behind the methodical look in his eyes was a burning fire, and she turned her head away and pretended her jaw was glued shut so she couldn't make a sound.

He went about it slowly, drawing her closer and closer to the edge, and when her breath just started hitching a certain way and the smallest convulsions of her body began to pop up he slowed down considerably or stopped altogether, so that she immediately lost her place and it would take several more agonizing minutes to get back to the point where her toes would start to curl but to her frustration, he would stop again and leave her fighting not to squirm. And just when she'd cooled back down he was back again, stroking and stopping until she wanted to scream her frustration, but she kept absolutely silent and refused to give him what he wanted.

Toffee returned later that night, cleaned and fed her, and it was back to the table again. Hermione bore it all well enough, but the silence was becoming too much to bear.

"You'd find him insufferable, too," she said to Toffee once, as Toffee was securing her back to the table. "I know you can't quite understand why I don't love him, but you would hate him too, if he'd killed everyone you loved, and locked you up, and forced you to live a life you don't want. I know you're happy to serve him, but I'm not. He's never been cruel to you. But you know what he does to me, and yet you still think I'm the crazy one for not revering him like everyone else does."

Toffee said nothing, and exasperated, Hermione tried again.

"How is my son?" She asked. "Can you at least answer _that_?"

Toffee had not replied. She hadn't even looked at her. Knowing Draco had ordered the poor House Elf not to communicate with her during a punishment, Hermione continued to seethe, her eyes growing wet with anger.

Draco was back again that night, continuing his attentions to her, never speaking a word. Hermione bit her tongue and gave him nothing. He left, but by then she was nearly delirious with want, and on the brink of begging for mercy. Her legs were stiff and sore from holding them still for so long, her arms ached and longed for a good stretch, her back hurt and she just wanted to lie in a soft bed somewhere warm. When Toffee had come for her and taken her to the shower, Hermione had waited until Toffee Apparated away to slip her hand between her legs and worked herself eagerly. Her climax came too quickly—she was left panting against the cold tile of the wall while the hot water continued to wash over her body. She did it one more time before finishing her shower, and when Toffee came to collect her and dry her off, Hermione found herself calmer than before, but as soon as she was taken back to Draco's office, she felt that frustration rise up from inside again.

When morning crested and she awoke, Hermione was beyond impatient to get up and leave the room, to see Lucio and Pansy again, but didn't dare say a word to him, feeling instinctively that even if she tried she would lash out in anger again, and the punishment would become longer or harsher.

 _No need for that,_ she told herself in the silence of the room, listening keenly and body tense, waiting to hear his footsteps outside the door, denying to herself that she almost anticipated it.

Not like this was the first time she'd ever gone through one of his punishments, either. In the span of their marriage, she had been subject to plenty of _corrections,_ as he sometimes called them. By far, this was among the tamest.

He had beat her in the beginning. So badly, she could hardly move the day after, even if he'd had her healed after it. That was before Pansy had come along, before Lucio, even. She remembered her skin black and blue from his fists, from his kicks, her throat raw and torn from her screams of pain. She remembered the feel of her ribs cracking inside her and the blood. She was thankful those had been a few occasions, and far between.

After her few attempts to kill herself, the beatings had mostly stopped altogether. But the psychological and emotional manipulation and the rapes had never ceased. He liked to threaten her with a whipping but had never gone through with it—she supposed he didn't want to run the risk of scarring her too badly, even if Toffee and Pansy were more than capable of healing her.

On one occasion, he had used the Cruciatus on her. There was still a gap in her memory from that day—she knew he had Obliviated her, but not why. Had he continued to torture her? Something worse must have happened to warrant the Obliviation, seeing as it was something he had almost never done until that point.

 _But that's not true,_ she realized. _He Obliviated me well before any of this happened after he marked me for the first time._

She smoothed her hand along the old scar in the crook of her elbow. She never looked at it if she could help it.

There had been the Isolation Room. That had been a favorite of his for a long time. Whenever she angered him, he had her shut in there and given food, and always threatened to have her in there for as long as a month if she didn't learn to behave. But he was too alone, he craved her too much to keep her away from him for too long, so her stays in the Isolation Room had always been considerably shorter than he intended at the start. She expected the same would happen here, especially taking into the matter the fact that he had visited her at least once every day since her confinement.

Bored, she tried stretching on the table as best as her restraints allowed. Unsatisfying. The light from the window almost blinded her. She tried shifting away on the table to avoid it, but that didn't do much. The room was warmer now, funnily enough. Beads of sweat at her temples and rolled down into her hair.

She hadn't seen Lucio in days. Hermione wondered what lie Draco had told him to keep him from asking where she was. Perhaps she'd just 'gone to visit a friend' again.

Draco's office stood silent around her, caging her. It was plainly decorated, with some maps up on the wall, sheaves of parchment stuffed into a bin beside the numerous bookcases. She knew that if she looked into a drawer on the right side of the desk, she would find those photographs Draco had taken of her the year before. She knew he had marked one of the maps in small 'x's' with red ink all the places they had lived briefly. She knew that if she tried opening any of the books in the office, or any documents or letters on his desk, that the letters and numbers would bleed together into an illegible mass of ink and confusion.

Thanks to Pansy, she knew that despite Draco's promises, there was still a small supply of bottled Amortentia tucked away in a secret drawer.

The door opened, and her breath hitched as Draco walked in, staring at her.

He stood at her feet.

"How fares my beautiful wife?" He asked.

"Fine," Hermione said coldly.

He smiled. His hand reached out and traveled over her leg. The heat of his hand was enough for her to start getting wet. Hermione cursed silently in her head.

"Were you waiting for me?" He asked softly. "Tell me."

Hermione hesitated, and nodded, heart beating fast in her chest.

His hand traveled up farther. Her legs shifted in anticipation. Her eyes closed in resignation.

"Toffee told me something interesting," he said off-handedly, his hand smoothing over her inner thigh.

Her toes curled and uncurled in anticipation and need, her back wanted to arch and offer herself to him. She was so wet, her lower lips were swollen and tender from his caresses, pulsing and aching for more. She would have done anything he'd have asked of her for release.

"She says you touched yourself in the shower without my permission," he said, and Hermione went still.

"I wasn't aware I needed your permission for that, considering it's _my_ body," she said before she could check herself.

"Normally, I'd be ecstatic if you shared that with me," he admitted, his voice husky. "You don't know how I've hoped for it. But I figured you still weren't comfortable enough to."

"Hence why I did it alone," she said waspishly, but despite her tone, she moaned quietly as his finger trailed along her slit.

"Show me now," he said, his finger teasing at her. "I want to see how you do it."

Her restraints for her arms vanished, and she stretched and sat up warily. Draco's eyes were heavy-lidded, watching her tirelessly.

"Show me," he repeated, more of an order this time.

Hesitant, she reached down. He pulled his own hand away and stood back, watching as she, blushing fiercely, pleasured herself. Her thighs were trembling—she could feel it coming quickly again. Her breath was uneven, her eyes closed tight to ward off her husband's piercing, studious stare. She couldn't help her moans. She rubbed at herself faster, adding pressure—she could feel her muscles contracting, trying to grasp for something that wasn't there. Her feet were still restrained, but her hips were pushing up into her hand as her climax climbed to its peak.

"Stop."

She froze, unable to move. Draco was smirking, his eyes molten.

"I think the rest can wait for later, don't you?" He asked. "Now lie back down and wait for me. I don't think it'll be long, now."

He snapped his fingers, and her body, acting on his order, lay back down and was restrained once more. Hermione almost cried with frustration. She was pulsing, aching for relief. Her clit was so swollen and sensitive it almost hurt to move her legs too much.

"Don't you dare finish without me. I'll know," he said over his shoulder and left.

Her pulse was still racing. She was still incredibly wet, her fingers damp and warm. She struggled to even her breathing.

"Rotten, cheating prat," she hissed under her breath.

* * *

Hermione slept very little that night. She saw now that to sleep was dangerous, as that was usually when he chose to visit her. Though Toffee had already come and gone and she'd eaten and showered, her body still tingled and pulsed, unsatisfied that she'd had no release. She ignored it, forcing herself to think of other things unrelated, not bothering to count the hours that passed because each one only brought him closer, and her body was painfully aware of it.

When she awoke, she was alone. The windows were open and it was morning again and her body was freshly clean but she was alone.

She stretched as best as she was able, and gasped in pain as her calf cramped. It hurt quite badly—she let out a wavering moan as her leg throbbed and she let herself go limp, wishing she could sit up and massage it, but there was nothing to do but lay completely still and wait for it to pass and for her muscle to relax again.

Her arms were so stiff it was painful to move her upper body much. Hermione wished Draco would release her so she could let her arms rest-though all she'd done for the past two days was sleep she felt so tired and uncomfortable from being on the table for so long that she felt she might implode if she had to spend another day on it.

After her meal, the windows were still open and she was watching how the sunset was changing the shadows around the room, wondering if Lucio was wondering where she was.

She forced herself to keep awake for most of that night, fearing the moment that door would open, and she would be absolutely helpless to his plan. But the curtains opened just as the sun was rising, and she'd only had three hours of sleep and still, there was no visit. And the fourth day ended just the same as the third.

That he was doing this intentionally was obvious, and it was torture. Hermione hated the desk she was on, she hated that door across the room, and she hated above all that her body still begged for attention.

She kept herself awake for some odd hours that night, but when she awoke on the fifth day her husband was between her thighs. Hermione gasped in pleasure, overwhelmingly aware of his tongue pressing against her, the searing warmth of his hands on her thighs, pushing them apart, and the rest of her body was barely warming up but she pulled at her restraints, wanting to press him closer.

Her jaw slackened as his fingers pushed inside of her easily, crooked at the knuckle, and began to rub her so slowly her hips automatically pushed up into him, demanding more. She felt his smile against her flesh.

"Good morning, wife."

She was pulsing, restless, hungry. His fingers weren't enough and he knew it—he lowered his tongue to her again, and she moaned her approval.

Draco pressed a quick kiss to the inside of her thigh.

"Did you sleep well, my love?"

She refused to answer, and for that, he pulled back from her and she, flushed and irritated, pulled harder against her restraints.

Draco smiled. "Did my little bird lose her voice?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear it. I see you haven't learned your lesson yet, however." He turned to leave.

"No-!"

"No, what?"

"I'm sorry," she said, without looking him in the eye. "Please forgive me, my Lord."

He was at her side at once, his hand cupping her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

"You've had enough?"

"Yes, my Lord." She would never get used to that unsettling stare. She fought not to look away from him.

"You want me to unbind you?"

"Yes."

"What else do you want, Hermione?"

A blush threatened to appear, but she refused to be ashamed. How many times before had he pulled a trick like this? It always ended the same way. It was better to get it over with than to suffer for longer.

"I want you to fuck me," she said, her self-hatred growing deeper with every word, and when he didn't answer, she realized her mistake. "Please, my Lord."

He bent forward, smiling, and kissed her forehead. "You'll have to bear it a little longer, sweetheart."

"No...please!" She couldn't stand it any longer, but his attentions were focused again on her lower body and she was strung so tightly from his earlier tortures that it didn't take long for his tongue to bring her closer to the brink.

Hermione's eyes screwed shut-her whole body felt like it was being wrung out from the inside—her mouth formed an 'o', her head fell back and her body arched upwards. Draco began to slow down and she let out a pleading moan for him to reconsider.

She had been fearful that he would deny her release again and had hoped that with her submission he would be generous, but she'd been wrong. He stopped abruptly, and she fell limp onto the table, wishing she'd never said anything at all. He would have just left and she would be in peace.

She looked up, and her stomach twisted in excitement as she saw him unbuckle and take off his belt. His oceanic grey eyes churned as they looked at her.

"You can stand now, sweetheart."

 _How?_ She wanted to say but then realized that he'd gotten rid of her restraints at that very moment. She sat up stiffly, wincing, and moaned in pain as she stretched her arms.

"You're not hurt?" he asked. She shook her head. "Good. Come here."

Hermione approached him slowly, trying to regain her sense of balance since she'd been lying down for too long.

Draco motioned for her to kneel at his feet and she paused.

The floor was cold against her knees, but it felt good to engage the muscles in her legs, though she did it gingerly for fear of pulling another muscle. His cock had already hardened, and swollen, it hung heavy before her. Hermione didn't allow herself to think anything and taking it in her fist, she guided it into her mouth, fighting the disgust that compelled her to spit it back out. She worked her tongue over him, thinking of anything else but what she was currently doing.

The taste, the texture...if it were anyone else she would be able to bear it better. After the first few times he'd made her do it she'd resorted to pretending that what was in her mouth belonged to someone else, but there was never any effective way of forgetting that this was Draco, and this was not her choice.

 _You were just begging him to fuck you, liar,_ sniped the malignant voice inside her. _Don't twist it._

She _had_ begged, but sometimes the lines were blurred so thoroughly it was hard to tell. She supposed it didn't matter now much anyway. She shivered at the thought.

 _How much worse do things have to get?_

Unfortunately for her, his size made blowing him difficult task for her, and though she'd gained experience since her kidnapping there was still only a limited window of time she could perform before the pains in her jaw prevented her from going longer. Draco was cruel, monstrous, even, but despite the many injustices he'd done to her, he chose to dole this one out far less frequently than others because he knew it caused her more pain, more so emotionally than physically. It was his favorite for humiliation, and of course, he must have deemed it _perfect_ for this moment.

His hands went into her hair and grabbed thick fistfuls of it, he let his head hang back, and let out a low groan as she began to bob her head on his length. Her jaw was as slack as it could be but already there was the beginning knot of a cramp starting up in the lower hinge of her jaw and it was hard to breathe. She used her tongue, let it swirl around his cock and laved it over the head repeatedly, dipping it between her lips and drawing it back out slowly, causing him to groan more loudly. His hold on her hair tightened, inadvertently bringing her closer to him and surprised, she braced her hands against his thighs. In the midst of the movement, a sound of surprise fell free from her mouth, vibrating against him, and he hissed out an oath.

"Look at me," he ordered.

She looked up, sucking her cheeks in slightly as she tried to take him in deep. She felt him shudder and grow harder against her. She let her nails dig into his thighs to let him know she was near her limit; her jaw was starting to feel stiff and she was getting no pleasure from the act—she desperately wished for it to end. She pulled free, let his length slip from her mouth to catch breath, some strands of saliva and precum dripping from her tongue and she made to wipe it quickly but his warning tightened grip on her hair forced her to reconsider so she swallowed it hastily, let the rest drip down her front.

Her hands were still on his thighs. Refusing to look at his still very erect penis that was still in front of her, she tried to stand and looked up in alarm when his hand on her shoulder kept her down.

"This time I want you to finish," he said. Already his hands on her head were guiding her closer to him.

Hermione fought her anger back. There was no point in fighting it.

 _Learn the right time to start fires,_ he'd told her. Well, she would take that lesson to heart.

When she took him in her mouth again there was an energy to her movements that surprised them both. To him, he knew the truth behind her sudden eagerness but embraced it for his own pleasure. Hermione closed her eyes and wished she had the courage to clamp her teeth down, to sever it in half.

She took him deep into her throat, fighting not to heave or cough, and was rewarded by him pushing deeper, forcing the tears from the shelter of her eyes. She gagged loudly, her stomach lurching. Draco shuddered violently, she felt the ripple of thigh muscles beneath her hands—he grabbed her tight by the hair again, each hand bunched at the base of her skull, and began to thrust into her mouth, guiding her head with his motions.

Hermione did her best to relax her throat and successfully managed not to vomit, at least. Though she would have liked that she supposed that would have added more to her punishment, and she was currently humiliated enough. Her jaw was quite sore—it hurt to have her mouth open so wide. The sounds coming from her would have been quite comical if it weren't for the fact that he was orally raping her.

 _And to think you wanted him badly only minutes ago..._

 _He manipulated me,_ she reminded herself. _I didn't want_ ** _this_** _._

"Hermione," he whispered hoarsely, and she doubled her efforts, knowing he was close. "Ah, _fuck_ -"

He pushed in deep one more time, hitting the back of her throat, causing her to gag again, but it didn't stop him from finishing and more tears came as she felt the familiar hot salty fluids run down her throat. She coughed, nearly choking on it but knowing he would be severely displeased if she lost it all, she struggled to let it subside. She swallowed it hastily, focusing on not letting her disgust show on her face. It always felt unpleasant to her—she shuddered as it went down.

He pulled her back up without giving her a chance to regain her composure and crushed his lips to hers. Hermione whimpered.

"Good girl."

Now she was beyond a doubt he was trying to provoke her to lose her temper again. Was it another test? Or was he really in the mood for a fight?

"Lie down on your front."

 _No,_ she wanted to say, _I've had enough. You've already humiliated me._

She was shaking and she was sure if she spoke she would have trouble finding her voice. She wanted to go hide somewhere, or block the memory altogether, as she'd done before when his punishments were too much for her.

But he was already pushing her down gently onto the floor, and her breasts and stomach met the cold surface and she began to shake harder, more in anticipation than from the cold. As if mocking her anger, her body was already warming to his touch; he pushed her thighs apart and his finger dipped in to test her and found her only slightly wet. He licked his fingertips and brought them to her clit and began to rub, just in the fashion she'd done the night before. Hermione buried her face in her crossed arms and bit her lip.

"Do you like it?" He asked slyly.

When she took too long to answer, he pinched her, and she yelped, but the hurt was gone quickly. He rubbed her softly there for a moment before delving his fingers into her, just enough to spread her arousal.

She nodded, and that was enough for him.

He climbed over her, one hand stroking his cock, the other hand squeezed her ass.

"Do I still bore you, Hermione?" he asked.

"No," she sobbed. Her face was engulfed in flames. He slapped her suddenly, a sharp sting across her bum. She jolted.

 _"_ _No, my Lord,"_ she repeated shakily.

"You can't lie to me, sweetheart," he crowed softly into her ear. "But I encourage you to keep trying. I greatly enjoy punishing you." And then he thrust into her, and Hermione, after being teased and tortured and made to wait for so long, let out a hoarse scream.

It didn't take long for either of them to finish—to Hermione, it felt like it happened in a span of seconds. He filled her and stretched her and she was almost senseless with want, not bothering to hold her moans back because it was already obvious that he'd won—he'd gotten the apology from her and the admission that she wanted him, after all. She'd had a half-willed idea to fight it as best as she could, as it had worked for her a few times in the past, but this time she couldn't bring herself to push back—her body demanded release and finally found it, and when it hit her it was so strong and overdue that she couldn't even scream but shook silently underneath her husband, her body clenching him so tight that he came immediately after, driving himself so deep into her that she had to reach back and push her palm into his chest to keep him from hurting her more.

Afterward, he pulled out from her and stood, immensely satisfied. She was sitting up and wiping the tears from her eyes; the most beautiful flush covered her face. Draco watched her avidly. She was radiant. Her hair was wild and her eyes half-stunned and her ass had a reddened imprint of his hand on one of its cheeks and his seed was slipping out of her even now—he reached for her and bit her gently on the neck before kissing her.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said hoarsely. Her whole body throbbed and she felt so weak-the good kind of weak-but she wished it had nothing to do with him.

He cupped her cheek. "I had half a mind to leave you there for another day," he murmured. "I was starting to think you'd have held out for a week."

At once, there was a jarring knock on the door. Hermione jumped.

"My Lord, you have a visitor," came Pansy's voice.

"Excellent," Draco said. "That will be all, Pansy."

Hermione scrambled up on unsteady feet and immediately looked around for something to cover herself with. Draco strode to the door and opened it.

"Good. You're here."

"Don't!" Hermione hissed at him. Draco ignored her. The stranger stepped inside and she froze, trying to cover herself, a frantic blush overtaking her face. The only thing to hide behind was Draco's desk but she assumed he would be going near there and while she didn't know what was going on she didn't want to be near it, especially since he was heading there now. The stranger wore the standard uniform of the New Legion, including the black mask fashioned into a crude imitation of a demon with silver markings lining around the eyes and nose. Whoever it was approached the desk without looking at her once, as if unaware of her presence. Hermione tried to go around them in a wide berth but the door was shut and she didn't dare call attention to herself for fear of what might come.

"Unmask," she heard Draco order the stranger.

"Thank you, my Lord."

Hermione paused. Something felt off—but she couldn't worry about that now when she was so exposed and filthy and quite possibly in danger. Still covering her breasts with one arm and her vulva with the other, she backed into the darkest corner, trembling. She wanted to ask Draco what was happening but there was a curious look on his face that she knew didn't bode well for her.

He caught her eye for a brief second as she tried hovered, petrified in the corner, and winked.

She knew above all else he was extremely possessive. So why let this stranger in while she was in this state, just after they'd had sex? Draco himself was still nude, too, and not in the least bothered by it, though as she watched he tapped his fingers on the table once and suddenly he was clothed again in his usual black and gold robes.

 _What about me,_ she wanted to ask. The stranger still hadn't looked at her and she was turning redder by the second, fearful of what other plans Draco might have for her punishment. She thought it was over already—what was next?

"Come closer, sweetling," Draco called to her, but his eyes were on the stranger, who was taking off his mask. From what she could see he had brown hair, grown to his shoulders and was badly in need of a trim. "Don't be afraid, this is a meeting between friends."

 _Your friends are_ ** _not_** _my friends,_ she wanted to say, but not wanting another punishment, instead grappled for something else to say.

"I'm not- _I can't,_ " she said. "I'm not decent—Draco, I don't know him."

The stranger had turned, but she couldn't see his face or reaction at her nudity because she shrank back into the wall, hoping to hide herself in shadow, looking at the wall beside her in embarrassment but suddenly Draco was there and had her by the arm and led her to the front of the room where the stranger was, and because he had her arm she wasn't able to cover all of herself. Hermione tried to will away her blush. It was the most humiliated she'd ever felt in her entire life.

Freshly used and covered in marks. Bedraggled. Utterly punished. So it hadn't ended after all. Now she truly _was_ sorry, because even if the manipulation and the rape weren't bad enough, she'd never thought he would bring another person into it. Would this stranger punish her, too?

"Isn't she beautiful?" she heard Draco ask the stranger, the pride in his voice repulsive. "You have my permission to speak freely."

The voice was oddly strained like they had damage to their vocal chords. "Like none I've ever seen, my Lord."

"Did you hear him, sweetheart?" Draco asked her. "Thank him for the compliment."

She hated him with all her heart. The _both_ of them, even if the stranger was merely following orders and could not refuse, even out of propriety. If he'd said something less satisfactory she had no doubt Draco would have punished him for it. But this stranger had _no right_ to look at her, even if Draco commanded him to, not when she was so broken. This was too much. And Draco had promised he would never share her with another person. This had to count as sharing.

"Thank you," she said hoarsely, relieved she had not stuttered. It was enough that she was blushing like a virgin. She would not stutter or blubber her way through the end of this. She knew Draco probably wanted her to put her hands down and stare the stranger in the face without blushing, to meet him proudly and without self-consciousness, but she couldn't, she _couldn't…_

"Lower your arm, Hermione," came Draco's order, and she clenched her jaw, quelling the violent flash of anger that filled her then, and moved her hand away from her vulva, baring herself fully to the men's view. She could not fight him. She could not say no. She'd never felt so low, so like someone else's property.

"Don't be afraid," Draco repeated. "Go greet my guest properly."

"Draco, please!" He had let her go and she felt foolish trying to cover herself again when they had already seen what they wanted, but Draco's earlier victory was still fresh in mind and she didn't want one of his blasted friends to have the honors as well.

"He won't hurt you, sweetheart. He's got more reason to be afraid of you than you of him."

The stranger shifted.

"My Lord, if I'm making her uncomfortable then I will come back any time it is more convenient for you," he said, bowing.

"No. I confess I forgot we were to meet today," Draco said, "but it's all the better that you're here. I imagine it's been some time since the two of you have seen each other."

What did he mean? Hermione knew only some of his Death Eaters by face or name, and this man was probably not someone she knew judging by the fact that a good portion of Draco's new followers were new recruits. From what she had seen and heard of him, he sounded totally unfamiliar.

But Draco was waiting, and she wasn't going to add more fuel to the fire at her feet when he'd just punished her, so she stepped forward, completely reluctant to follow Draco's order. She forced herself to look at the stranger, more closely. At first, she saw a stranger, but there was something that forced her to keep looking, so she did, and when a few seconds had passed, she gasped and felt all the color drain from her face.

The only reason the man looked to have brown hair was because of the dim lighting in the room, coupled with the fact that it appeared his hair hadn't had a good wash in a long while, and it smelled that way too. His eyes were blue, but not the blue she'd once known. They'd grown darker, and the lines around his face hinted at hardships she would never have wanted for someone she'd known for so long. Though he'd always been a few years older than her he appeared twice that age now—were his twin still alive there would be no more difficulty telling them apart. Hermione tried to picture him laughing now with the face he had, and failed.

Suddenly Draco's words and hints came back to her and she staggered. Draco reached for her but she caught herself, and nudity forgotten, she stared in shock at George Weasley.

He stared back, no trace of shame or regret in his eyes, just a dull, sad recognition. There was a scar running from his cheek down to his neck, still fresh. His eyes were lowered but it wasn't her breasts he was looking at—she caught his emotionless stare at the scars of Draco's bite, still imprinted into her skin. Then he looked up. There was a faint trace of shame in his look. His mouth withered into a grim, humorless shape that was meant to be a smile.

"Hullo, Hermione."

"Oh, Gods." Tears were coming up again but she'd had enough of them so she fought them back as fierce as she could. So this was Draco's plan after all, because she didn't believe for one second that he'd forgotten about the supposed meeting. She'd thought the humiliation had already passed with him making her beg for sex. Perhaps that was part of it, the but the true humiliation was staring her in the face.

George had called Draco 'my Lord.' He had been wearing a Death Eater's mask when he came in. She glanced down and saw the black, silver-detailed robes that identified Draco's followers.

"No..." she moaned. "No, no, no... _George..."_

Her knees buckled again and George, having received the signal from his Master, caught her with his arms and supported her to stand upright. Hermione held onto him, praying that it was all a nightmare, that it was actually a stranger and not her old friend. She felt his erection and knew that was why Draco had wanted her to hug him but didn't care. His arms wrapped around her loosely, comforting but awkwardly aware of the presence of her husband and his Master.

"Is this not a pleasant surprise?" Draco asked. "I didn't think you'd be meeting one of your _family_ again, Hermione, and most certainly not like this."

"Congratulations on the marriage, my Lord," George said.

"You caught us just as I was finishing correcting my wife," Draco said nonchalantly.

"Yes, I'm afraid I overheard some of it, my Lord," George said, having the grace to look embarrassed. "Had I known you would be busy I would have been glad to come again another time."

"And miss reuniting with an old friend?" Draco's tone had the slightest edge to it—Hermione's skin prickled. "I wouldn't have had you miss it for the world."

And there it was.

 _He's testing him,_ Hermione realized. _He doesn't trust him._

Draco came forward, and George's arm fell away from her, to be replaced by Draco's sliding around her bare waist.

"I know you have questions, Hermione," he said, "but George here's just arrived from a long trip. He'll be staying with us for a spell, and I'm sure he'll be more than happy to answer them when he's freshened up and well rested."

George bowed. "I'm obliged to you, my Lord."

Draco grinned. "Hermione's been missing her old family lately. I'm sure the two of you have lots of catching up to do. I'm sure she'd be interested in finding out what you've been up to since you last met."

There was a sinister threat behind those pleasantries. Hermione looked at George, fear creeping into her heart.

 _What has he done to you? What have_ ** _you_** _done?_

Draco called Toffee to get George settled into a room. Draco led Hermione away from the room just as Toffee was escorting George out of it. She sensed Draco's triumph in the air, clashing with her confusion.

"Lucio will want to see you right away," Draco was saying to her. "Let's get you washed and dressed, first."

She heard none of it. The world had narrowed down. Her ears felt plugged. She couldn't blink.

George met her eye, his expression morose as he walked past her.

 _You'll learn,_ that look said to her. _You'll learn._

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Another long chapter for my patient readers. Thank you so much for reading! I'll remind you again that updates will be slow, but I'm chipping away at this story as best as I can. For news, questions, and updates, please consult my blog (link in profile).**

 **Please don't forget to leave a review!**


	8. The Survivor's Lament

**Eight.**

 **IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE AT THE END OF THIS CHAPTER.**

The Survivor's Lament

* * *

Hermione hardly slept that night, and Draco was well aware of it. They lay in bed together, his arm slung over her, his body curved protectively around hers. She hadn't said a word to him since George had left them in Draco's study and surprisingly, he hadn't seemed to mind.

He had come into bed an hour after her when she was still awake. She had spent much of that hour tossing and turning, her eyes raw and tired, her body aching with a dull intensity.

He had slid in behind her, his hands instantly on her, hot and strong. He had kissed her neck.

"You'll speak to him tomorrow," he murmured. "Get it out of your mind and rest."

"It's not that easy," she said, her voice monotone, struggling to keep her temper from flaring.

"If he tries to leave, or refuses to answer your questions, I'll see to it that he changes his mind," Draco said simply, "but he'll be here when you wake, my love. I guarantee it. You have nothing to worry about."

She shook her head.

 _It's impossible, arguing with him._

"Are you controlling him?" She asked. "Blackmail? Imperius? …Are you paying him off?"

Draco chuckled. "None. He joined me quite of his own will."

She scoffed. His hands went tighter around her. "He'd never."

"Do you think it's so impossible?" He asked, his voice going lower. "Do you know him that well, then? Have you forgotten that you came back to me of your own will and have stayed since?"

"I came back because you threatened to kill what was left of my friends if I stayed," she said coldly. "And I'm only staying because of Lucio, and that promise I made. You left me no other choice."

"You've _always_ had a choice, Hermione," he said firmly. "It's only out of the good of your own sweetheart that you chose to have them spared, and damning yourself to me in the process. You could have tried to run again, or stayed with them and tried to defend yourselves."

"Either way, the result would have been the same as it is now," she snapped. "No matter what choice I took, my friends and family are dead."

"But then you have happy accidents like George, who is still alive and extremely relieved to see you again after so long apart," Draco said. "Would you rather have no one survive?"

"Don't try to play this game with me," she hissed. "I know what you're doing."

She tried to scoot away from him to the farther side of the bed, but his arms were like iron around her, and so fuming, she crossed her arms over her middle and tried to ignore her husband wrapped around her. She closed her eyes and hoped sleep would come quickly.

Draco didn't seem to mind. He stroked her skin slowly, pausing once to prop himself up on one elbow, loosen his other arm, and bend down to kiss her on the edge of her mouth.

* * *

George was not at breakfast the following morning. Hermione was oddly relieved by this. She realized she didn't want him to have to sit through the awkward spectacle she and Draco made every morning, playing the role of family. Married couple sitting down to breakfast with their child, as if she weren't a hostage and he wasn't the monster who had put her there in the first place.

Lucio seemed a little glum that it was raining so heavily outside, but Draco reminded him that he had tutoring that day anyhow, and that was more important than playing outside.

Draco received some post that morning but had it sent to his office, all except for the _Daily Prophet._ He scanned through it quickly, the paper hovering in front of him over his plate, its papers turning rapidly as if he already knew what each page would say, and was only checking for confirmation. Hermione watched him warily, a knot in her stomach. She tried to read whatever she could from the front page, but as before, the words and letters jumbled together into one messy printed alphabet soup at the bottom of the paper, and resigned to her disappointment, she merely turned back to her tea and sipped at it, wondering if there was something in particular Draco was searching for.

When he was done, he folded it back up and held it out to her.

"Would you like to read it, my love?"

Hermione stared at him, eyes wide. Draco stood and placed the paper before her. He tapped it with his finger and at once the full text and images righted themselves, all within a blink of an eye as if her problem had been that easy to solve all along.

Hermione drank it in. Draco stroked the back of her hand. She took his hand and pressed it, and looked up to smile at him, the man who had raped her the night before.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said.

Draco didn't return to his seat.

"I've got business to attend to in the Ministry today," he said. "I'll be there until late tonight, perhaps. Lucio, your tutors will be here very soon. Pansy will come to collect you when it's time to begin."

"Yes, Father," Lucio said, looking rather displeased.

To Hermione, he said, "Martin will be here at noon. Pansy will bring him in. You know the routine. You'll have the rest of the day to yourself."

She nodded and stood, going to kiss him goodbye.

"I'll be expecting you to cooperate tonight," he breathed into her ear as they embraced.

The knot in her stomach tightened. She nodded and watched as he left. Her breathing returned to normal once he was out of sight.

She sat back in her seat, eager to rid her mind of the memory of the night before and read the entirety of the newspaper, but she had only just unfolded it and landed eyes on the picture of the Prime Minister on the front page when the sound of footsteps demanded her attention.

She had expected it to be Draco at first, perhaps having forgotten to announce some other plan for the day, or that he wanted another kiss, but it wasn't.

It was George.

Again, she had almost not recognized him. His hair had been cut and washed, and his hair was its true red. The scar along his face was more vivid than the night before. He was thin but tall and still cloaked in the colors of the damned: black and gold. He looked a little younger with all the grime and unkempt hair cut and washed away, but there was still that haunted look in his eyes that aged him.

"Good morning, my Lady," he said, bowing, just as Hermione had almost given in to the urge to run to him and embrace him.

"Good morning, George," Hermione said, trying to smile, and shoving away the awkward thought that he had seen her completely nude the night before. "Please, come sit with us. Are you hungry?"

She had almost forgotten that Lucio was there until she caught his eye and saw his apprehensive expression as he looked at her and then George.

"Lucio, darling," she said, "this is my old friend George Weasley. We knew each other for many years before your father and I were married. He works for your Father, now."

George, seeing Lucio, went pale, but he summoned up a smile. Hermione guessed Draco had conveniently not told him he had a son.

"Pleased to meet you, little Lord," he said.

"You and mummy are friends?"

"Oh, yes," George said, and accepting Hermione's invitation, sat down at the table opposite her. "We went to school together when we were young, although I think she was closer to my brother Ron than she was to me."

Hermione's heart wrenched with pain. She felt a dart of anxiety run through her as if Draco was there and had heard George's words. She wanted to take him aside and hiss Draco's rule to him—-

 _We don't speak the names of the dead here._

It only ever happened when Draco himself said them, and that was rare enough. It only spurred his anger and jealousy. If this continued, Lucio would ask his father questions innocently, and then she would pay for it later.

But it was too late. Lucio turned to Hermione. "Ron? Who's that, mummy?"

Hermione took in a breath.

 _Draco's gone,_ she reminded herself. _Your fears are irrational. This was bound to happen, and Draco probably knew we would talk about it._

"Ron was a very dear friend of mine in school," she said, glad her voice was level. "He was George's younger brother."

"Don't forget Harry," George said, cracking a smile, and for an instant, she flashed back to their summers in the Burrow, when he'd crack jokes at supper and have them all choking on their soup. Pain flared in her heart.

 _I can't handle this._

"Harry?" Lucio was asking. "Mummy, who's that?"

George looked at Lucio and frowned. "Who—?" He looked back at Hermione, his smile faltering. When he saw her grave face, he looked incredulous, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "He doesn't know?"

"Harry was another very good friend of mine," Hermione said to Lucio, but it was too much, too sudden. The room was spinning around her. All she could think of were those graves. "Excuse me—"

She pushed back her chair and fled the room, walking as fast as she could. She heard the scraping of chairs behind her.

"Mummy?" Lucio called. "Mummy?"

 _We don't summon the dead here._ It kept repeating in her head. _We don't, we don't, and there's a reason why._

Lucio knew, now. He would have more questions. Draco had forbidden her from the beginning to tell him about Harry or Ron, and even though she had been furious that he would dare to forbid her from telling her own son about the most integral people of his own life, she had eventually come to the realization that perhaps it was better off that way. It was too painful, too shameful, to tell her son the story of her life before her capture, the adventures and magic, and independence, the brave, beautiful people she had known. She could picture his excitement and eagerness to learn more and then as he would grow older and wiser, realize how boring and pitiful her life had become since then, and even if it was not by her own volition, he didn't know that. He would pity her or become embarrassed by her. He would adore his powerful father more and more, and her influence over him, her only true influence over anything inside this _damned_ house, would fade.

She found herself by the window in the corridor. It looked out into the gardens and she stopped abruptly, the warmth of the sun a welcome comfort on her cold skin. She wiped at her eyes though she had not cried and tried to regulate her breaths.

She heard footsteps behind her.

"My Lady, are you alright?"

She shook her head. " _Don't_ call me that."

"I'm afraid I must, or my Lord will punish me," George said.

"I can't stand it," she said and turned to look at him. "To be Lady Malfoy wherever I go, like they're trying to wipe my past away. I'm afraid one day I'll have heard it enough to forget who I am. He can call me whatever he likes, but as far as I'm concerned, I am _still_ Hermione Granger."

George nodded slowly. "Of course," he said. "I'm sorry for everything you've been through."

"Don't ever apologize for that," she said, a tad too sharp. "That was my own fault, and his."

She turned back to the window. He stepped closer.

"I'm sorry I left so abruptly. I-I had a rough night. I was overwhelmed."

George nodded slowly. She stood utterly still and looked composed but for the wet glimmer in her eye. He could sense her agitation, however, like the beating of a frantic bird in its cage. It was upsetting. It reminded him of Fred in his last days.

George shook the thought away.

"He doesn't know about Harry or Ron," he said, pointing back to the direction of the dining room. "Your…son. He doesn't know. About me, I understand. But Ron and _Harry_ …why not?"

There was pain in his voice.

Hermione went to him and took his hands. There was so much pain in her eyes.

A bright stab of pain ran through their arms at exactly the same moment. George cried out and made to let go, but she, knowing it would happen because of her ring, had latched on and would not let go, even when the pain intensified. Draco would know, but she didn't care.

"Eat," she said. "Then we'll talk. And explain everything."

* * *

When they returned to the table, Lucio was expecting them. He had finished his food and had waited for them at the table, his bright, young face burning with questions unasked. Hermione went straight to him, trying to muffle the anxiety that spiked within her.

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed his cheeks as George sat down on the other side of the table, and after a second's hesitation, began to collect food on his plate.

"Who's Harry, mummy?" Lucio asked.

Hermione sucked in a breath, pulling away from him to sit back in her chair.

"Harry was my friend during school," she said. "Just like Ron. But Harry…he was more than my best friend."

Lucio's gaze implored for an explanation. Hermione didn't dare go further than that. This covered most of it without treading into dangerous territory. She wasn't ready to dive this deep so soon, especially with George as an audience—familiar or not, they had to have a long and lengthy talk before she revealed too much. He answered to Draco, now. She had to remember that and find out if she could trust him.

"We were all best friends," she resumed. "We did everything together. We got into a lot of trouble."

Lucio's eyes went wide. "Trouble?"

"We fought a troll, once," she said, smiling. George was grinning. A hollow, beaten grin, but she saw the spark of remembrance in his eyes. "At the start of our first year at Hogwarts. I was so afraid, but they helped me escape from it."

Lucio's mouth had gone slack. His eyes were like stars.

"A _troll?_ Mummy, you fought a troll?"

"Yes," she said. "And many other kinds of creatures."

"What else did you do, Mummy?" Lucio asked, almost bouncing in his seat with excitement.

"He speaks very well for someone so young," George said, impressed, more to himself than to anyone else.

"I want you to remember this, my love," she said slowly, reaching out to smooth his hair. "We didn't do the things we did because we wanted to. We did them because we had to. There were people who wanted to hurt us, and we were just trying to survive."

"Hurt you?" Lucio asked. Trepidation crept across his face. "Why?"

Hermione struggled to find a proper answer. If she brought up Voldemort and Harry, the Prophecy and everything in between, they would be sitting there for days.

 _Draco wouldn't like it, either._

She was saved from that when Pansy entered the room.

"My Lady," she said, "the tutors have arrived. Shall I take Lucio to them?"

"Noooo," Lucio whined, crossing his arms. He looked beseechingly at Hermione.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said, despite her secret relief. "You have to go. Your lessons are important."

"I don't want to. I want to stay with you!"

"I'll still be here when they leave," she reminded him. "We can talk again later."

"Promise?"

"I promise." She helped him out of his seat and kissed the top of his head. "Be good and go with Pansy. I'll see you later."

When she stood back up, and he had just reached Pansy, she caught her eye. Pansy was looking at George, who was still at the table, without an ounce of surprise.

 _She knew._

Pansy seemed to sense her thought, and nodded, her face solemn and apologetic. Hermione nodded in answer. Why should she be upset? Pansy was also under Draco's command. He had probably bound her to be unable to reveal the secret to her without severe punishment. Hermione watched as Pansy took Lucio's hand in her own and exited the room.

Now they were alone.

Hermione went back to the table slowly. George was not eating. He watched her, half of the food on his plate untouched.

Suddenly the room felt colder than before.

"What now?" He asked quietly. "Should we do this here?"

She shook her head. "Come with me."

They exited the dining room and into the corridor. They said nothing for a while. Hermione led him through the manor. Except for the sound of their footsteps, the place was silent. They encountered no one else. Every room was cold.

"Is it always like this?" He finally asked.

"Mostly," she admitted. "Unless he has more of you over."

She hadn't meant for that to bite, but as they walked, and his robe flowed with his movement, she caught glimpses of the gold trim on it and was reminded to be careful, that he obeyed her husband first. She was always second on that order.

They had reached the Isolation Room. It had been some time since Draco had last put her in there, but it was exactly the same. A fire sprung to life in the hearth as they entered.

He looked at her, waiting for instruction.

"Sit," she gestured to the room. The bed, the armchairs by the fire. She had unpleasant memories on every surface of this room, where Draco had consummated his lust on many occasions.

"Won't you?" He asked.

"I'd rather stand."

He went to one armchair and sat, looking rather uncomfortable. She followed him there and stood in front of him. He watched her, wary, waiting for her to speak.

It took a moment for her to gather her voice again.

"What happened to you?" She whispered.

"It's a long story," he said. Even his voice sounded haunted. Hermione wondered if she ever sounded like that, too. "It's probably best if you sit down."

"I'll sit when I want to," she said firmly. "Now tell me everything."

He sighed. "After my Lord defeated Harry, everything went to hell. We were all in shock. We looked at his body, waiting for him to get up again and save the day, just like it happened with Voldemort. But it didn't."

"I didn't know you'd been seen there until weeks after. None of us saw you, except Neville, apparently. If we'd known, we'd have tried to take you with us, but that probably wouldn't have worked. More than half our numbers were gone. Once Harry went down, they started taking captives. Fred—Fred and I were separated. I was panicking. I couldn't find him. Harry was dead and I couldn't find Fred. That's all I remember thinking." He shook his head.

"Whether he was dead or alive, I was going to find him and bring him back home with me. That was all that mattered. I didn't know Ron had been killed until I saw them burning his body. They were burning all the bodies so they wouldn't have to bury them. Most of our side was gone or leaving, or dead. It was useless to fight back. And Malfoy was quick. He was burning, killing anyone who was stupid enough to still try and take them on, looking for any captives he could take. The only reason I wasn't taken by him was that you came along when he found Neville and distracted him, but I didn't know that until later."

"Did you get away?" She asked.

"Bellatrix found me," he replied, and his voice had gone hollow. "She had someone knock me out and take me to her house. They'd thrown me into a cell. When I woke up, some of my ribs were broken and I had trouble remembering how I'd got there. But I saw Fred in the next cell with his leg was broken, and that's when I remembered." He swallowed. "I didn't care what they were going to do to us. I didn't care if they were going to kill us. The only thing that mattered was that we were together. I told him I saw what they did to Ron. We didn't know what'd happened to Bill, or Ginny, or Charlie. By then, mum and dad had been dead for a few months."

Having seen their graves only a day before, his words bore into her like a dagger pressed deep. Hermione nodded, sniffling.

"How did it happen? Were they killed in battle?"

George shook his head. "Before. Mum was sick—we're not sure how it happened. She was fine one day, and then she wasn't. She said she hadn't been feeling well for a few days before that. I think it was Percy's death wearing on her. His, and Bill's. She'd stand there at home just staring at our clock, at their hands. When they'd died, their spoons went to Sleep and never moved again. She'd watch it for hours like she was waiting for them to switch to Awake at any moment. After she got sick, she insisted we bring the clock into her room, and she'd watch it when she wasn't sleeping. Ron and Ginny were taking care of her. We had Healers come and take a look but their medicines weren't working, and mum died two weeks later in terrible pain. Dad followed her three months after that. Natural causes, but I think he didn't want to live without her."

Hermione put her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice heavy with emotion. "They were good, lovely people."

He nodded, sniffled loudly. "They were. It was hard, at first. I think I would rather have them gone that way than have them killed off by an enemy, even though it was awful."

"What about the others?" She asked. "I saw when Ron was killed. MacNair did it. I haven't seen Charlie in years."

"I saw Charlie at the battle before I got separated from Fred," George said numbly. "He said to look for Ginny, and that's the last I've seen of him. No body, nothing. They wanted to put up a grave for him, too, but I wouldn't let them. Not until there's hard proof."

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered. The Weasley's had been such a large family. Now, less than half of them remained. It tore at her heart.

"It's stupid to keep hoping, probably," George said, his voice worn and dull. "But I figure if you're still alive, there's a chance that Ginny and Charlie might be, too. We looked for Ginny among the captured in Bellatrix's dungeon. We saw some people from school, there—mostly younger ones we didn't know very well. Fred couldn't move, thanks to his leg. Most of us hardly knew each other, but we tried to take care of each other, and I was trying to think of a way to get out because they'd taken all our wands and broken them, and whatever was coming next wasn't good. We were there in the cold and dark for a few days, I think. We couldn't get out. We weren't given food. Half of us were dead by the time they remembered they had people down there. They pulled us out and chained us up so we could barely even walk. They had a Healer come in and fix Fred's leg, and then they forced him to come with us when he should have been resting. He got a bad limp because of that, and that was the only way they could tell us apart afterward."

He paused to catch his breath, and Hermione clicked her fingers.

Toffee Apparated into the room.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Bring water, please."

"Yes, Mistress."

Toffee Apparated away and a moment later two tall glasses of water appeared beside each of them. A fa, sweating pitcher made a loud _clink_ as it landed on the tiny table between them.

"Thanks," he muttered and drank deeply. He set the glass down and cleared his throat. The pitcher floated forth and refilled his cup.

As it did, he looked around. "This is your life, now, then." He sounded sad.

Hermione nodded, a grim set to her lips. She would tell him everything when the time came. She would lay everything on the table, and see if he would try to defend his Lord. She would know how to act next, based on that, but his turn was not yet done.

"What happened next?"

"Anyone who'd survived those few nights in the dungeon was made Bellatrix's slaves," he said. "There had been about ten of us at the start. When we were taken out of the cellar, there were four of us left. She gave one of those girls to a friend of hers. She was crying, and Fred and I tried to stop it—there's no good reason why a mean, ugly looking sod like him wanted a girl less than half his age. They whipped us bloody for that right there, and when it was done, they were already gone." He shook his head, a haunted look in his eye. "I still think about her. I didn't even know her name."

Draco's words from a long time ago floated back to her:

' _There are others.'_

Hermione closed her eyes. When would those words stop haunting her?

"There was another bloke with us—Bellatrix wasn't interested in him, so she gave him to the first person who asked. His name was Eric. Then it was just me and Fred. We thought she'd give us away, too, but we were wrong." He paused.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"Yeah. It's just unpleasant to think about," he said. "I'm sure you know the feeling."

"Too well."

"They were still celebrating having won. They were drinking, eating, some were dancing. Malfoy wasn't there, but they praised him constantly, toasted to him. A lot of them had their own slaves, fresh from the battlefield. I saw a lot of familiar faces—I'd just fought alongside them days ago. Now we were all wearing chains. They tortured us a bit, just for fun. For laughs. And when they were tired of drinking and dancing, some of them stripped their slaves and had them right there, or shared them with groups." He swallowed loudly and shuddered. "It felt like it went on forever. I'd never been so angry in my life."

 _'_ _There are others.'_

"Did Bellatrix—did she?" Hermione asked.

"No." George cracked a dead smile. "That night, she didn't touch us, and there were some people who wanted us, but she wouldn't let them. Said she can't stand redheads and likes Weasleys even less, but she didn't like sharing what was hers. That changed later, but I guess for that one night we were granted one tiny miracle there. That's how I felt for a few minutes. Relief, as people were being assaulted around me. She saw that, and I think she couldn't stand that. So she had Fred and I wait on her all night. Feed her, give her drinks, take off her shoes when she wanted to be barefoot. The whole time, she talked about how most of our family and friends were dead or missing. We tried not to let it bother us, but it was hard. She talked a lot about you. She hadn't seen you or Draco in years, and neither had we, for that matter, but she loved to talk about the many ways in which he'd probably already killed you, and if it wasn't that she painted a very vivid picture of you all chained up in a dungeon somewhere, raped and beaten and inches from death."

He paused. "We hadn't seen you in so long some of us already believed you _were_ dead. I think it was easier that way than still believing we could find you and save you. Of course, later on, we found out she'd been lying, and that you'd been seen at the battlefield, so when Bellatrix saw that it wasn't working, she told us about how she helped poison our mum."

Hermione grabbed his hand. Held it tight. Pain simmered along her arm.

"After that night, she changed her mind about using us," George continued. "She was being offered sums of money from people who wanted us, Fred and I, at the same time. She didn't care about the money. She didn't even need it. But she'd found a way to humiliate us, so she rented us out most nights, and she didn't give a flying fuck if we got hurt." He wiped at his eyes. "It was a nightmare, start to finish. We were forced to serve men and women, e-even each other. And when we refused, we were tortured, and they put us under the Imperius, and then sent home, and tortured again and denied food."

Hermione covered her mouth with her hands.

"I'll spare you the rest of the details," he said, not looking her in the eye. "We endured. They beat us, and tortured us, and Bellatrix had us sleeping on the floor outside her room, cleaning her home…entertaining guests, but we were alive and we had each other, and that was all that mattered. Every day, every night, we'd think of ways to escape."

"Fred…" George said, his voice cracking. He swallowed. His face was absolutely hollow. Broken. "He started to fade. The first time they had us touch each other… that was the day it started. There was shame and guilt, at what we had to do. I tried to forget it every night. Put it out of mind. Think about anything else. Before then, we tried to tell each other jokes sometimes at night to make each other laugh, to try to forget what we'd done, what'd been done to us. We had to whisper, so the others wouldn't hear us. But after that night he stopped laughing. I never heard him laugh again. He got quieter and quieter until even I couldn't reach him. He wasn't eating. I tried to help him. I saved most of my food for him but he wouldn't take it. He wasn't there anymore. I tried to be there for him, tried to tell him we'd get out, but there was no way to even try, because they had us without magic and chained to each other, and fed us just enough so that we weren't starving, but we didn't have a lot of energy to begin with."

He stopped and took a moment to breathe. His eyes were red. Hermione waited silently, her stomach churning.

"The Dark Lord began to make visits to Bellatrix," he said. "He saw us one day and seemed too happy to have found us. He said it was possible to win our own freedom by joining him. We'd be able to see you, he said, and serve him, and never be sold off to anyone else again. We refused. We wanted our freedom and to see you, just not under his terms. But every night I thought about it a little more, and when he came back a month later and asked again, I said yes."

George went quieter here. Hermione, burning to know the rest, resisted the urge to press him on.

"I hadn't told Fred, because I knew he'd convince me not to," he said, looking at her as if expecting her to do the same, even now that it was too late. "But I was so tired of it. I was worried about him and knew we had to get out, because there was one couple who kept paying for us and they were getting crueler and rougher and I knew it was only a matter of time until they either seriously injured or killed us, and Bellatrix was taunting us, saying they'd offered to outright buy us from her, and she was tired of having us around, so she was going to do it."

"So I said yes to him Fred wouldn't say anything. I knew he wanted to leave too, just as much as me, but he didn't want to go with Malfoy. But he didn't want to be left alone so he signed the contract too, and I was glad because I was ready to drag him out of there even if he didn't want to come with me. We'd thought Bellatrix would have been furious, but either way, she was just happy to get rid of us, so my Lord gave us some money and we stayed at an inn for a while, trying to think of what to do next. We spent days just lying around, not talking much, just happy to be out. Fred still wasn't himself, but I thought he'd get better in time. He was mad at me, and I felt and do still feel guilty over it but we were out, and that was all I cared about. We were being watched by Malfoy's people, so we knew we couldn't run away. After a week, we were taken somewhere to perform the initiation ceremony. He gave us the robes, and we got the marks, and in the end, after we swore our loyalty, we were presented with new wands."

He had his out, was looking down at it, the glare of the fire raging in his downturned eyes. It was black, with a gilded handle. Smooth. Featureless. Hermione vaguely recalled his original wand, with its defining features that had been so odd alone, yet the perfect complement to that of his brother's.

"When it was over, we went back to the inn. Our Lord was going to send us on a mission, our first task. We were going to head out the next morning. He'd given us a bag of money each to see us through, to find lodging and food and clothes for the mission, and then a more permanent place to live afterward when we returned. I wasn't excited about it, but I was ready to move on. I would have done anything to get the past few months out of my head, and I was eager to do it fast, because Fred still wasn't doing much else day to day, and I knew it was all haunting him, so I wanted to get us out and traveling and thinking of anything but that."

He paused and took a deep, shaky breath.

"That last night—" he stopped short again. His hands were visibly shaking. He tried again.

"That last night…he talked a little bit. More than I'd heard him speak in a month, I think. He started up and he didn't stop for a while and I was so blown over by it, I just let him talk. And me, the idiot, I thought it meant he was getting better."

"What did he say?" Hermione asked gently.

"He was just bringing up old memories. 'D'you remember that time we broke out of Hogwarts on our brooms?' And I said of course I did. He said he'd never been happier in his life then, or the day we opened up our shop. He said he'd never forget those days. Then he went to sleep."

George went silent for a long time after that, obviously struggling for his next words. Hermione found his hand and gripped it tight, not caring that the pain was making her head swim and her arm numb. She looked down at their hands joined together and gripped until she saw her fingertips turn white, the indents in his flesh from her pressure. He squeezed back fiercely, and if he felt pain from her ring, he showed no reaction, either.

"When—" He heaved out a dry sob, and took in a long, ragged breath. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"When I woke up the next day, he was gone." He shook his head. "Gone. He'd used his wand on himself in the loo of our room at the Inn. No note, nothing. He never said goodbye."

He stopped again as if he was about to cry, and Hermione had expected it, too—he looked as if he were about to burst with sadness. A moment later, however, he blinked, shook his head again, and continued, although his voice wavered.

"I think the guilt got to him. I think it was driving him mad, what we'd been put through. That, and what he'd seen at the battle. "And I think he was too embarrassed to talk about it to me, his own brother. We both knew we had been forced to do it, and that it wasn't our fault, but he still took it hard. The Dark Lord came, and we buried him out by the Burrow. I left for the mission that night. I was in shock. I didn't know what else to do. I'd never been without him. I'm still not used to it. I thought it was better to surround myself with strangers than face the fact that I was alone and almost without family, without my twin. I kept seeing him everywhere I went, out of the corner of my eye. I completed my mission months later and reported back to my Lord. He uses me as a scout, you see. A spy, sometimes, too. He sends me off on missions, and I just came back from the latest one about a week ago."

"What was your mission?" She asked softly, finally extricating her hands from his, though she needed help, as she couldn't manage to move her numb hands at all. George realized her plight and helped settle her hands in her lap, eyeing her ring warily, as if he could sense that was where the pain had come from.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you yet," he said, and she nodded.

Of course not.

"I'm glad to see you're alive," he said. "You're probably glad to see me, too, but I know we both wish we weren't still breathing. That would have been easier, wouldn't it?"

"Once, maybe," she replied slowly. "Now I have a son, and it's my responsibility to make sure he comes to no harm."

"Do you…do you really love him?" George asked.

"Yes," she said. "It isn't his fault he was born of rape. He is young but intelligent, and I want to make sure he won't turn out like Draco, although I'm sure that's exactly what Draco wants."

"It wouldn't surprise me," George said. "My Lord himself is very much like his own father. But greater," he added thoughtfully, as if paranoid that Draco was listening in.

"I'm sure Lucio will be powerful, too," Hermione said. "We decided he should start lessons very young, and in a few years, we'll have to send him to school somewhere. I'd rather have that than have him constantly under his father's influence."

"Did you want to have a child?" George asked quietly.

"I wanted to have a child as much as I wanted to be married to Draco," she said, and that was answer enough. George nodded and looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It mustn't be easy knowing I serve him now."

"It's a bit of a relief, actually, knowing I'm not the only person he owns," she said trying to laugh, but it was so true and painful she couldn't manage it.

"What happened, after you left the Burrow that night?"

Hermione sighed, let her lungs deflate as much as they dared before drawing in breath to speak.

"You know the first half of it," she said, and he nodded. "The obsession, the kidnapping—everything else. The last time I was at the Burrow, Draco sent me a threatening letter. He'd captured Neville and was going to kill him and dismember him if I didn't return immediately. I had no choice, so I went. He released Neville as he'd promised, and then raped me. The next morning, I tried to kill myself. That was the first attempt."

George flinched. With effort, she pressed her hand (still half-numb) on his shoulder for comfort and drew it away before it fell completely numb again.

"I couldn't take it anymore, either. But he caught me and I survived. I was depressed for a long time after that, and still suicidal. He took care of me, more out of selfishly wanting me still alive than of wanting me to get better. He drugged me and spiked my drinks with fertility potions and when I found out I was pregnant, I begged him to end it. I tried to do it myself a few times, but he always caught me."

"I'm sorry."

She looked down.

"He used to beat me black and blue. Once I had Lucio, that stopped. He doesn't make me take Love Potions anymore. But he wants me to rule with him. He promised me my magic back if I agreed." She looked at him. "I've been fighting him for several years now. I'd sworn to myself I'd continue fighting until I died or he killed me… Do you know what it's like to not be able to use your magic for this long?"

He shook his head. He'd been deprived of his wand and magic for only a few months. For Hermione, it had been years. Those few months for him had felt like an eternity.

"I'm afraid I'm forgetting how to use it," she said. "I'm afraid I'll never get it back, that I'll live as I am now for the rest of my life. I'm starved for it, and he knows. He dangles my magic in front of me like a carrot to get me to do what he wants. And I do it. I said yes."

"My Lord granted me a new wand, more powerful than the one I had before," George said. "He fulfills his promises."

Hermione shook her head, wishing he'd understand, that if only he could know how many times he had lied to her.

"Hermione," he said softly, his eyes pained. How natural pain looked in his expression, now. It fit into the lines of his face, the bend to his brow. Her heart ached for him, and the way he was looking at her, she knew he felt the same for her. It only continued to tear her heart in two. "Don't look at me that way."

"You're loyal to him now."

"He helped Fred and I get our freedom," he said. "And in return, I signed my life to his cause. There was nothing else I could have offered him that he wanted. He could have just killed us the moment he took us from Bellatrix, but he didn't."

"Why do you think he wanted you to join him so badly?" Hermione asked, wiping at her eyes. "He's going to use you to manipulate me, too. He's going to test you, again and again, to make sure you're loyal to him and not me, can't you see that? If I step so much as one toe off his line he'll only have to threaten to kill you to make sure I obey him."

"Do you think I didn't know that?" He asked. "The best we can do is play our parts, and bide our time. If we play his game, no harm will come to either of us."

"That's easy for you to say when you don't have to live with him and share his bed every night."

George went quiet. "It's that bad, is it?"

"From the very first day."

George's voice had gone strange.

"I'm sure my Lord only wants what's best for you."

She stared at him in shock, her heart sinking low.

 _So that's it, then? He's fully on Draco's side. Maybe he doesn't realize it yet, but he is. I think Bellatrix broke him after all and didn't even realize. The George I knew once would have told me to continue to resist, and to make hell every step along the way. He never would have tried to justify Draco's actions. Never._

"Don't you tell me that rubbish, George, don't you _dare_ ," she said, and he inclined his head.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I misspoke."

Just how deep was he on Draco's side? There was still so much she didn't know. He'd signed himself over to her husband and clearly worked for him now. What had he done in his service so far?

She looked at him as if he were a stranger.

"Do you believe him, then, when he says he wants to better our world?"

"No," George said. "He only wants enough power to make sure everyone does what he wants, and that there's no repercussion for the things he's done because there's still powerful people out there who won't bow to him and still want him thrown in Azkaban. There used to be more, but he's finding them all and vanishing them… I don't know what he ultimately wants. He seems happy enough where he is now—I don't think he's reaching for anything higher—not yet." George sighed. "But whatever his plans are, whatever he asks of me, I have to obey. I signed my life over to him to save my brother. Now that he's gone, I've got to keep myself alive. Even if I don't really care for life anymore."

Hermione said nothing for a long while, looking out the window bleakly. She had thought George might be an ally to her, a friend reunited, but now she was sure she couldn't trust him, not when he seemed so grateful and—the word made her feel ill— _loyal_ to Draco. She would tread carefully, keep prodding for information, but she could not count on him.

 _Perhaps I can switch him back. But how?_

When she turned back to look at him, she thought she saw a flash of odd color in his eye. Her stomach jumped, but he blinked and it was gone, replaced by the usual blue of his eye. The color shift hadn't been too great—the sunlight was shining onto them from the windows nearby—she could feel it on her own face. It had to have been that, but she still found herself on edge. He looked at her, waiting for her to speak.

"What have we got ourselves into, George? How will this all end?"

"I hope we don't turn into enemies," he said honestly. "I've done terrible things, during and after the war. I still care about you. You were like family to me, once. You still are."

"I don't agree with what you did," she said, "but who am I to condemn you, considering what I've done as well?"

"I don't blame you, either," he said, voice shaking. "For any of it. For staying. You—we did what we had to in order to survive. Maybe we're monsters now, but we're alive."

Hermione sniffled loudly, leaning into him, feeling his arms wrap around her. Pain flared up her spine instantly, and she arched her back and hissed, but clung to him regardless.

"I'm so sorry, George…" she sobbed, unable to finish her sentence. Pain jabbed at her, right between her breasts, and she curled away from George instinctively, gritting her teeth.

 _For what you've been through. For what you've been forced to do. For what he'll make you'll do in the future. I don't think you've realized yet what you've done when you joined Draco._

"Are you alright?" He asked, alarmed, letting her go. The pain fled at once.

"Draco won't let me touch other men without consequence," she said. "Even if it's innocent."

His eyes were full of concern.

"You won't get into trouble. Draco owes me this much, at least."

There was that flash in his eye again, but she missed it as she stood up and checked the clock on the opposite wall.

"Martin is due soon. I need to change. Come and meet him."

* * *

George stayed with her long enough to escort her to the library and meet Martin. They talked awkwardly for a while until George excused himself to go rest.

"You say he is an old friend of yours, my Lady?" Martin asked as he painted, the soft soundtrack of his brushes against his canvas a comfort to Hermione's ear.

"Yes," she said, struggling to stay awake. It was tiresome to sit still for so long. She had been dozing off for several minutes now. "I was very close friends with his younger brother."

Saying it for the second time that day felt so odd. Almost liberating, as if it were a secret she'd been on the verge of screaming for years. It wasn't a secret, but the fact that Draco had forbidden her from speaking of them had made it feel so.

"He had five other brothers, you see," she said, feeling bolder, even as she fought off her drowsiness. The room had grown hot with the midday sun. "Five brothers, and one sister. All together with their parents in one house. I used to visit them in the late summer and stay with them until school started. They were a second family to me. My magical family. My own parents were both Muggles. I haven't seen them since before Lucio was born. They could be dead for all I know. They don't even remember me. It's better off that way."

"My Lady?" Martin asked. "Are you well?"

"Very," she replied, her eyes closing. "I'm as fine as can be expected considering the circumstances. I've been better before, but I think this is the best I'll be for quite some time."

"…Of course, my Lady," Martin said, sounding unsure. He peered out at her from behind his canvas. "Shall we stop for today?"

"Yes," came Draco's voice from the entrance to the library as he strode in. "My wife has had a very long week, you see. Come back early tomorrow and pick up where you left off."

"Of course, my Lord," Martin said. He bowed and packed up his things and left. Hermione had snapped awake at the sound of Draco's voice. She stood up and readjusted her gown. Draco approached her.

"I trust your talk went well," he said, his hand coming up to graze her temple.

"You saved him," she said. "Even if it was for your own agenda, thank you."

His lips were warm against hers. "You're welcome, little bird."

He bent down and picked her up, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. He kissed her again and set off for their bedroom.

"Where's Lucio?"

"He had his lunch and was waiting to speak to you. I told him you'd see him tonight, before bed." He paused. "I know you touched him. I won't punish you for it. Perhaps it was cruel of me to leave it on you when I knew you would touch him once he told you what he went through. I know you've learned your lesson, and I know you won't be unfaithful again."

It was a veiled threat and a vague promise. Was he actually sorry, though? Hermione wasn't sure.

"Of course not," she said. She reached up and locked her arms around his neck.

 _Tell him what he wants to hear. Nibble on that carrot, and take a step closer to your magic back._

"He's a dear friend and nothing more. I'd never be unfaithful to you."

 _Not again, anyway, when the only man I really loved is nothing more than bones underground._

As long as neither of them mentioned it, things would be fine.

"I've assembled an event of sorts for tomorrow," he said. "You're expected to be in attendance."

Her insides twisted.

"What is it?"

"Something joyous, hopefully," he said. Hermione didn't like the tone of his voice when he said that. "I discovered something interesting a few hours ago. I hope you'll like it."

A large box floated behind them. Hermione peered at it cautiously.

"What is that?"

His hand slid up to squeeze her bum.

"A present for the most beautiful woman in the world."

Hermione sighed. What could it be? More jewelry? The box was too large for that.

"You know how I feel about presents, Draco."

"Indulge me, sweetheart. Is it so bad for me to want to give you gifts?"

To that she said nothing.

 _You can't buy my affection. This is only ever for your own pleasure._

They had reached the dining room, where dinner was laid out for them. Lucio was just being escorted in by Pansy. Draco set her down onto her feet and summoned Toffee to take the box up to their bedroom as Lucio ran up to Hermione and jumped into her arms.

"Will you tell me now, mummy?" He asked eagerly, peppering her cheeks with kisses. Hermione laughed, and the tightness in her chest eased.

 _How can you fear your son turning into a monster when he's so full of love?_

"Tell him what?" Draco asked, and her smile faltered.

"About Hogwarts. About my friends."

"Potter and Weasley?" Draco asked, the slightest sneer curling his lip. He ruffled Lucio's curly hair as he sat down at the head of the table, his legs spreading underneath it as if he sat on his throne. "So many entertaining stories, aren't there, sweetheart?" He asked Hermione. "Go on, share them with us."

She had not expected this. She eyed Draco carefully, but he didn't seem hostile. A little on edge, yes, but nowhere near the level she was used to. It was a little frightening, but when he caught her eye and smiled at her it was almost an innocent, honest smile. He nodded, egging her on, and she felt her hackles rise.

"Well," she began, turning to Lucio's bright little face. "Harry and Ron were my best friends at school."

"And Father?" Lucio asked. "What about Father?"

Hermione hesitated. "We didn't know each—"

"Your mother and I were rivals for many years before we fell in love," Draco said, interrupting her. "We didn't get along very well at the start, you know that. She preferred their company to mine."

"That's right," Hermione said, eyeing Draco warily. What game was he playing now? Or had he too decided it was time to lay out their story for their son? How much would he omit, or fabricate?

 _I'm about to find out._

"We had a lot of adventures," Hermione said. "I told you about the troll. We also saved a Hippogriff from—" Draco's hand gripped her wrist gently. A warning.

"…From being hurt. We got to ride it and fought Dementors in the Forbidden Forest outside our school."

"Dementors? Wow!" Lucio said. "Master Lleywn says they're scary!"

"They are," Hermione said. "Don't you ever go looking for one."

She spent the rest of their dinner relaying heavily edited stories of her misadventures at Hogwarts, including Fluffy, the Triwizard Tournament, and the Basilisk of their second year. Lucio seemed to almost not believe it at parts, but Draco had verified it all and neglected to mention his role in every single one as an antagonist on the opposite side. Resentful, Hermione chided herself that she should have known Draco wouldn't want to paint himself as a villain to his own son.

 _Not yet, anyway._

"Tell me more, mummy!" Lucio said.

"You haven't even touched your potatoes yet, my love," she said.

"Please, mummy?"

"Another day," Draco said firmly. "It's nearing your bedtime, anyhow, and we've got a busy day tomorrow."

 _Oh, right. That._

"Pansy says you're having a party," Lucio said. "Can I go, Father?"

"No. It's only for adults," Draco said. He stood and went to pick up Lucio from his chair. "When you're a little older you can come to them all. I'll expect you to."

Hermione went stiff.

 _No._

"When?" Lucio demanded.

"In a few years, perhaps," Draco said thoughtfully. "I was a little older than you when I was allowed to by my mother and father."

"That's a _lot_ of time," Lucio said, scowling.

"A _long_ time," Draco corrected. "It will have passed before you know it, mark my words. Now say goodnight to your mother and I. It's time for bed."

* * *

"In a few years he'll still be only a boy," Hermione said as Draco climbed into bed beside her. "And you want to throw him into your serpent's nest and witness all you do?"

"I was around that age when my father introduced me to what he did," Draco said, nonchalant. "It would have been better if he'd known from the start. He'll learn soon enough what I do and who I am, and you can't stop that from happening, Hermione. Would you rather have him ignorant of it his entire life?"

"I won't let you corrupt him," she said, shaking off his arm when he tried pulling her in closer. "He is _my_ son, too, and I have as much say as you do when you try to dictate how to raise him. He _won't_ have the upbringing you had."

"Shall I just Imperius you to get you to agree?" Draco asked lazily. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh. He wrapped his arm around her hip and forcefully pulled her closer though she tried to resist. Her breathing had quickened.

"Don't you dare," she breathed.

"We've been over this," he snapped. "He is my only heir. I'll not have my own son ignorant of what power his family holds. He will learn just as I did. It's not corruption. He'll accept it. I know he will."

Here came the gooseflesh again.

 _'_ _I know he will.'_

He sounded so sure of himself as if he'd seen into the future. That frightened her.

"I won't let you," she said.

He chuckled. "Fight me then, sweetheart. You know I love it. We'll see how it ends."

She glared at the wall, where a wide mahogany wardrobe took up most of the space there. The night table next to the bed—her wand was on it. That wasn't where she'd left it that morning. Had he magicked it there just now, to remind her of her promise? She closed her eyes, feeling rage simmer inside her, letting it wash over her in waves, giving in to it, imagining herself with magic again, taking vengeance in the cruelest, most pleasurable of ways. That gave her relief, but it was always fleeting.

Draco had fallen asleep, his arm still tight around her. Hermione let herself drift in her rage, feeling her skin burn under his touch, as if flames grew beneath her skin, trying to burst out and lick him to ashes. She thought of her son, innocent and young, dangling over the precipice of his father's madness. Fear spiked inside her, coiling and twining with her rage.

Mere feet away from her, perched securely on the night table, her wand rolled toward her an inch, then moved no more. She, with her eyes closed all the while, noticed nothing.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **A long one as an apology for such a long wait between updates. I love you all and thank you for being patient with me and waiting so nicely for updates. I had a real rough time churning this one out. There's an explicit sex scene earlier in the chapter but since it really doesn't serve much to the overall plot I'm only including it on the Ao3 version of the chapter and on my Wordpress blog. I realize some people have an issue with most of the chapters having a sex scene so I'll be careful about that later on even though I do consider that being an important part of Draco's character and somewhat of the plot. I won't get in depth over it on here but if you want to read that omitted scene please head to my profile and find the links to my Archive of Our Own profile or my Wordpress blog and read it there at your leisure. I realize the sensitive and controversial nature of this story also adds to the complaints so I want to be respectful of that here on this site only, as this is the only place where I've received that particular feedback.**

 **More to come! Happy Holidays!**


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